


Elephant Gun

by hou_dini



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 136,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hou_dini/pseuds/hou_dini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Band!AU. Fernando Torres is the heartthrob. Daniel Agger is the sulking junkie. Pepe Reina is straight, which is not to be understated. Steven Gerrard is their powerhouse leader. Jamie Carragher is a manager whose greatest talent is not killing anyone in spite of a fervent desire to do so. Most of them love each other (heterosexually or not), some of them not so much, but their music is good and the band is going places. That until a former band member returns to reopen old wounds and things will never be the same again for The Red Kop. (Also, I suck at summaries.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stevie thinks he looks at least 10 years older as he analyses his own reflection on the cracked mirrored wall behind the counter. Between dirty shelves full of half-empty bottles of alcohol, he sees huge black marks under his eyes, the crinkles on his forehead effortlessly deepened further than ever.

He looks every bit as exhausted as he feels. And slightly drunk as well. 

Ok, considerably drunk.

The bar smells like cigarettes and booze, with just a little scent of vomit to set the atmosphere. It’s dark, old and reeking of disappointments and failed expectations. Looks like the kind of place where dreams go to die, matching his mood just perfectly.

There is a fancy party going on at some ridiculously extravagant hotel and he’s supposed to be there. Well, that’s an understatement. He’s something like the guest of honor. His band is, anyway. Circulate, shake hands, pretend to recognize the rich bastards, smile; routine stuff. The kind of task he could do braindead. Carra spent the entire week bellowing on their ears about the importance of causing a good impression, although it wasn’t really with him Carra had been worried about. 

It was Daniel. It was always Daniel. 

But Daniel’s probably parading across a room full of people he never met before, holding a flute of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other, making Jamie very proud of him while good ol’ reliable Stevie buggered off into the night.

He blames the city for his misbehavior. 

Stevie really fucking hates Madrid.

“ _Uno más, por favor_ ,” he says to the barman in his awful high school Spanish accent. The lad is a large built man with a hard look in his eyes and his lips are drawn in a grimy line. Stevie can tell he’s not very keen on the foreign boys by the way he casts an annoyed glance his way before fetching him another pint. “ _Gracias_ ,” he makes sure to add. The guy just ignores him and goes on about his chores.

The beer goes down burning, making his eyes watery. It tastes as horridly as you’d expect from a bar like this, not that he had expectations to begin with. Stevie reckons that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to be drinking when feeling eerie and gloomy; it’s meant to be a punch to the gut, not a walk in the park.

A familiar sounding name coming from the little TV behind the counter catches his attention. A tiny reporter with huge bulgy eyes babbles excitedly about something. Frankly, Spanish just sounds like _blablablablabla_ to him. Except for the part where she mentions The Red Kop, and then his face is on the telly, smiling, waving, pouring his heart out on a song while thousands of girls scream.

Stevie then remembers they have a gig the next day; it’s why they came to Madrid in the first place. You’d think that would be the first thing on his mind. Usually, it would. His responsible side is telling him he shouldn’t be having beer of dubious quality and getting wasted on the night before a concert. Carra is going to fucking murder him. But even that side is starting to get a little tipsy, so he just waves it off and drinks some more. He’ll worry about tomorrow when the time comes.

“What would those girls say if they could see Steven Gerrard right now?”

Stevie raises his head and stops, feels his body go rigid, his fingers flex angrily around the glass in his hand. Every hair on his body stands to attention and his lips press into an antsy pout at the sound of that voice - of that bloody Spanish accent, always so smart, so eloquent. 

Madrid might just be his least favorite place in the entire fucking planet.

“How did you know I was here?” he asks, not turning around.

“I didn’t.”

“How did you find me then? Did a paparazzi give you a tip?”

“You’re not that famous around here, Steven.” The way he says his name… Turning the ‘v’ into a near ‘b’, like he’s got the right. The bloody wanker. Thinks he’s allowed to do whatever the hell he wants. It just makes Stevie want to hit him. “I just had a gut feeling I’d find you in a place like this.”

Stevie sighs, tries to relax his posture a bit and not look so damn tormented. That’s exactly what he wants. Stevie won’t give the bastard the taste. “Well, then. You found me. Congratulations, Carmen Sandiego.”

“Thank you.” Stevie hears the smile on his face. 

He approaches him by the bar, takes a sit on the next stool, eyes burning on his face until Stevie can’t avoid to look anymore. He takes another gulp from his beer and then there it is - stormy blue eyes meeting audacious brown ones.

“Hello, Steven.”

“Xabier.”

Xabi grins a grin Stevie knows so well he feels suddenly sick. It’s that subtle curving of lips that says ‘ _I know what you’re thinking_ ’ and ‘ _I’ve still got you_ ’, and it takes Stevie a lot of self-control not to punch the smugness out of the Spaniard’s face, mostly because it’s true.

It’s been two years, four months and two weeks since he’s last seen Xabi Alonso - not that he's counting - but it feels like yesterday that the bastard walked out on them - on _him_ \- and went back to his precious Spain, to his beautiful Madrid, where the sun is always shining and the flowers are always blooming and the grass is a hundred fucking shades of greener. England is grey, boring, too far away from Xabi Alonso’s ambitions. England is not good enough for a man like him. A hick like Stevie isn’t good enough for him.

It’s not that he thinks about Xabi all the time - he doesn’t. He’s got his music, his career, his band. He’s got Fernando. He doesn’t think about Xabi. It’s goddamn Madrid that brings it all back in a rush and makes him want to throw things around and break everything and quite possibly Xabi as well. Especially Xabi.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you weren’t at the party.”

“Why were _you_ at the party?”

Xabi shrugs gracefully. “I’m a former band member residing in Madrid. The company sent me an invitation.”

“And you thought it was a good idea to show up,” he says, not as a question, but an accusation.

“Why not?”

_Because we fucking hate you. Because we needed you and you left. Because I don’t want to see you ever again, you bloody prick._

Xabi looks so good and put together Stevie feels a little embarrassed. He’s got his best suit on, but his tie’s disappeared, his collar looks askew, his hair is messy and standing out in a weird way. He looks like he got on the worst end of a fist fight and was made to wear his defeat bright across his face. Despite his surroundings, he suddenly feels inappropriate. 

Xabi, on the other hand… Xabi is elegant and polished and perfect. His new beard doesn’t make him look older, but rather wiser and more refined, like a man who only knows success in his life. Stevie decides he hates the damn beard.

He stays quiet and drinks again, moves the glass with his hand to see the liquid go around in circles inside; a welcome distraction.

“Why aren’t you at your party?” Xabi asks. 

 

_“Stevie, listen,” Carra says, with an urgent tone. “He’s here.”_

_“Who’s here?”_

_“Xabi.”_

_“Fuck.”_

_“Yeah, fuck. But you’re gonna have to deal with it.”_

_“Who invited him?”_

_“I don’t know, but he’s here. Avoid him if you want, but do not act like a cunt, do you hear me? Don’t start an argument. Just… pretend you don’t care. Be the better man. Can you do that?”_

_“Sure.”_

_“Great. Now go and get yourself more champagne. You’ll need it. I’ll go keep an eye on Daniel.”_

_Stevie turns around, pretends he's heading for the bar and goes for the door instead._

 

“It’s not my party,” he replies, simply.

“It’s your band.”

“Pepe and Daniel can do the honors.”

“Where’s the new boy?” Xabi asks, a hint of something different on his voice, disrupting his well-practiced poise for just a split second. _So he knows_ , Stevie thinks.

“He’s been part of the band for over two years. He’s hardly a new boy,” Stevie says. _He’s replaced you, you old rag_ , he wants to add. _He’s been replacing you ever since._

Xabi grins. “Where’s _Torres_?”

“He has some family stuff.”

“Ah,” Xabi says. “He’s from Madrid, isn’t he?”

Stevie doesn’t say anything, just drinks. Yes, Fernando’s from Madrid. Yes, that’s the reason why they are staying in this sodden city for longer than the strictly necessary. Because half of the band is made of Spaniards and they want to be with their relatives and friends while Stevie withers and dies. Who cares?

Xabi’s fingers drum a beat on the sticky countertop. They’re long and calloused from playing the guitar, just like Stevie remembers. For a moment he wants to stretch out his hand and touch him. He doesn’t.

“So,” Xabi starts again. “From one to ten, how angry with me are you?”

Stevie frowns. “I’m not angry.” Even he doesn’t seem to believe his own words. He used to be better at this, saying things and meaning them. Again, Madrid.

“Really?”

“It’s been two years, Xabi.”

“Then why won’t you even look at me?”

Stevie does. “Because I don’t like you anymore.”

Xabi is quiet for a moment, his eyes unreadable. Stevie hopes he’s hurt. It won’t be even a tenth of what he felt when Xabi left, but it’s something already. He’ll take whatever he can. 

“So that’s very angry, then?”

“You want specifics?”

“Please.”

“From one to ten? Nine point two.”

Xabi’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “That’s very high.”

“What were you expecting? You left us.”

“I expected you’d be over it.” 

Stevie feels a stab somewhere. “This might come as a surprise to you, but not everyone is a heartless wanker, Xabi.”

“It’s been two years, Steven.”

Now it’s his turn to be silent, feeling his stomach churning away inside, feeling Xabi crawling underneath his skin. ‘ _I’ve still got you_ ’.

“Why are you here?” he asks again, because that part is still cloudy. He can’t understand why Xabi would deliberately leave a room full of upper class people like himself to walk the streets of Madrid in search of a filthy enough bar for Steven Gerrard - other than to torture him, that is.

Coming to think of it, that’s exactly the kind of thing Xabi would do.

“I already told you,” he replies, calmly, like a teacher talking to a child. 

“No. Why were you looking for me?” He turns the glass against his lips and drinks the last of it, the fire down his throat sending a jolt of renewed energy through his body. “You’re not supposed to be.”

Xabi looks at him, sighs wearily. “I can’t -” he starts, stops, bites his lip; the uncertainty dancing shyly behind his eyes looks odd on him. “I miss you.”

Stevie laughs a hollow, dragged laugh that sounds more like an enraged whimper. 

“You don’t believe me.” It’s an affirmation.

“Can you blame me?”

“I do, Stevie.”

“Blame me?”

“Miss you.”

“Ah.”

They fade into silence once more; the unintelligible _blablabla_ from the TV joining the low clinking of glasses to fill in the space they leave. Stevie doesn’t see the point here and therefore doesn’t know what else to say. He spent two years either hating Xabi or trying to get over him through so many imaginary conversations with the Spaniard he quite honestly ran out of what to tell him. Stevie isn’t good with spoken words, it’s why he writes and then sings them, but doesn’t say anything. In his head, however, when he spoke to Xabi, he picked every single word very carefully and made him feel as guilty and destroyed as Stevie judged he deserved to feel.

Now, there is nothing else to be said.

“I need to take a piss,” he says, gets up from his stool and tumbles his way to the restroom.

Restroom is kind of a bigger concept, though. This is more of a tiny little dirty room, only a tad better lit up than the rest of the bar, improvised as a bathroom out of sheer necessity. He thinks about how he fled a luxury five stars hotel to escape Xabi Alonso only to end up finding him in this shithole and laughs at the irony.

Stevie pulls his Gucci trousers back up when he’s done, moves to the sink to wash his hands and takes a little time to study his complexion once more. Under the pale light of the bathroom he looks even worse.

The door opens and, unsurprisingly, Xabi walks in. Stevie’s eyes flicker his way through the mirror.

“How do you feel about fucking me?”

Stevie’s hands stop moving under the water for a spell. Then he continues, looks for paper towels or whatever to dry his hands with and, predictably, doesn’t find anything. That would be a luxury, wouldn't it? He turns to Xabi, shaking his arms in the air to get rid of the excessive water and not wet his expensive suit.

Xabi’s staring as though he’s said some sort of polite amenity, like ‘What about this weather, ei?’ or ‘I like your suit, where did you get it?’. Stevie forgot Xabi has this thing where he can be blunt like a rock to the head but still sound ridiculously elegant while doing so. It’s annoying.

“Excuse me?” he asks, finally.

“Fuck me.”

“What?”

“Want me to give you a demonstration on how it works?” he smirks. The bloody bastard _smirks_.

“I’m not sleeping with you, Xabi.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

“Is that why you came here? You needed a booty call?”

The Spaniard stuffs his hands in his trousers’ pockets and takes a step closer. “I think we both need this to happen, and you know it.”

“You’re fucking mental.”

“Perhaps,” he shrugs. “But I’m also right.”

He comes closer to Stevie, so near the Englishman can feel his breath on his face, that familiar and distinct scent of _Xabi_ invading his nostrils and making him shiver. He can’t tell whether he’s angry or anxious or frightened, but he’s suddenly very hot.

 _I’ve still got you_ , he can read it on Xabi’s thoughts, on his smile. He feels the Spaniard’s hands tentatively reaching out to touch his, palms covering his knuckles; Xabi feels incredibly warm for a cold fucker.

He pushes Stevie back against the wall, presses their bodies together, one of his knees pulling Stevie’s legs slightly apart to fit in between them. His hands slide up his arm until he’s got them around his neck, making little soothing circles there with his thumbs. Stevie doesn’t know how, but his own arms end up around the Spaniard’s waist, like they belong there. 

Xabi still has him.

“Don’t worry,” Xabi tells him, placing a soft kiss on his lips. “He will never know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to remind you all that English is still not my first language and the story has not been beta'ed, so I apologize for any mistakes you might find! Feedback, as always, is much appreciated! <3
> 
> I still think this is my best story to date.

The sensation comes into being before he realizes what is going on; feather-like touches, traces of little wet patches all over his skin slowly consolidating into kisses, soft, tender and warm, pulling Stevie out of sleep.

His face crunches into a grimace, eyes pressed shut, as he grumbles in complaint. “Xabi…” he murmurs, and tries to escape by turning his head to the other side. All he knows, really, is that he feels tired, heavy, and it doesn’t matter what time it is, it’s still too early. 

But then, all of a sudden, the kisses stop, and the heat radiating from the body covering his dims considerably as it moves away. Stevie rolls around and blinks, once, twice, until he can focus. 

Where he expected to find a ginger beard he sees a constellation of freckles instead, spread across a confused expression.

“You called me Xabi,” Fernando states, somewhat taken aback.

“What?” Stevie asks and hides his face by rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands in order to buy himself some time because honestly, he just called his boyfriend by his ex’s name. What the fuck? 

“Were you dreaming about Xabi?”

“What? No,” he says, sitting up on the bed, his head spinning like a bloody merry-go-round overdosing on electricity. “What time is it?”

“11. Why did you call me Xabi?”

Stevie sighs, plays it cool, but his heart is going on a thousand miles inside his chest. “I don’t know, Fernando, I was sleeping. I don’t know what I said.”

Fernando stares at him suspiciously. “Hm,” is all he says.

“How was your sister’s birthday?” Stevie asks, trying to strike up conversation as naturally as he can, as though he’s innocent; like he’s got nothing to hide. There's nothing to see here. Move along, move along...

“Good. Where did you go last night?”

Oh, well.

Stevie considers lying for a second, but he’s just woken up and he’s not sure he trusts his ability to be convincing right now, what with his head aching from the hangover, his throat dry and motherfucking Xabi and all.

“A bar.”

“A bar?”

“A bar,” he repeats, nodding his head once as if that adds some sort of explanation to it.

“Did it have anything to do with Xabi?”

“Fernando -”

“I know he was here. Carra told me.”

 _Ah._. Isn’t Jamie just a blessing? “I just wasn’t in the mood.”

“For Xabi.”

“For Xabi and the rest of them fuckers.” His voice comes out more annoyed than he intended - guiltier. But it’s too soon for an interrogation; he can’t think properly. It's a miracle he hasn't unintentionally spilled the beans yet. “I didn’t want to be here, so I left.”

“I tried to call you a million times.”

“I was hiding from Carra, not you.”

“You know he’s going to have your liver for lunch today, right?”

“It’s not going to taste very nice.”

“Just thought you should be prepared.”

“I drank so much shit last night I probably won’t even feel it.”

They fall quiet; Fernando looking at him as if he’s trying to decide whether to believe him or not; Stevie looking at Fernando and silently begging. 

Eventually he decides the awkward lack of conversation isn’t really doing much to help his case, so he throws the covers away and is very grateful to find out he’s not naked - something else that wouldn’t have added much to his dignity or pretense innocence.

“I need to shower,” he announces, places a little kiss on Fernando’s bright yellow hair and gets out of bed.

When he’s about to enter the bathroom, Fernando takes a deep, loud breath. Stevie stops and waits for the question to come.

“Was Xabi here?” 

Stevie turns around to face his boyfriend. “I thought you already knew that.”

“I mean here,” he pauses. “In your room.”

“No,” Stevie replies with easiness, thankful for Fernando’s particular choice of words and inability to be straightforward in voicing his concern. He went for a circumlocution when what he really meant was ‘ _did you sleep with him?_ ’. 

At least this way Stevie doesn’t have to lie.

x-x-x

Post-show mornings are usually very slow. They are all so wired after a gig that it takes them ages to manage to get some proper rest, and so they are all at their laziest the morning after. But when he walks into the breakfast room at the Madrid hotel, Carra thinks this has to be some kind of record.

Pepe is reading a magazine looking like he hasn’t slept in a month; Stevie has the same sullen air about him he’s had ever since they arrived, eyes down on a Spanish newspaper for lack of a better place to look at. Last time Carra checked, he still couldn’t speak two whole sentences in Spanish - even though he spent the best part of the last five years with at least one Spaniard in his bed. You’d think that would’ve at the very least made him a bit more cultured, but well. (If you ask him, he thinks it just made Stevie stupider, but what does he know?) Daniel is sitting on a chair as someone who’s been shot but can’t be bothered to fall down, eyes closed, head bent back in an odd angle. Jamie worries for a second before he decides the cigarette hanging from the corner of the Dane’s lips is an indication he’s still breathing. Fernando is stuffing his mouth with cereals because he’s probably the only sane one in this bunch.

“Don’t we all look jolly this beautiful morning,” he says and joins them by the table, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

“Hm-hmmm,” Pepe murmurs, not looking up at him.

“Good morning to you too, Pepe,” he replies, and notices neither Stevie nor Daniel bothered even giving him a look. Fernando smiles apologetically, cheeks puffed like a blowfish as he munches on his cereal. The kid’s quickly rocketing up to the top of his favoritism chart. 

“I’m here to remind you all of your commitments of the day. I suggest you start by stuffing your faces with coffee. You better not show up for any of your appointments looking like you’re all dying of cholera.”

Daniel shows signs of life and moves his hand to raise a mug of steaming coffee from the table.

“Good. Pepe, you have that interview with Cadena SER at 2pm.”

“Yup,” the Spaniard answers.

“Be late again and I’ll hang you.” Pepe frowns, but doesn’t look up. “Stevie, you’re with me today. We have meetings with some of the important people you ditched the other night and you better put up your best Prince Charming act.”

Stevie sighs. “Why do I always end up with the worst parts?”

“Because you’re a fucking prick, that’s why. It’s what you get for disappearing on me. I spent the whole week worried about Daniel and you were the one to let me down.”

“Do I get a golden star for that?” Daniel asks, removing the cigarette from his mouth to sip from his coffee.

“You get your fucking payment for doing your job. I’m not your babysitter.”

“We could sure use one,” Pepe adds.

“Wipe that misery out of your face and practice your goddamn smiles, Stevie, we’ll need it. Fernando,” he then turns to the younger boy, who stops a spoon mid-way to his mouth to look at him. “Photoshoot with Daniel for GQ. The car is picking you two up at 4.”

“I didn’t know about that shoot,” Stevie says, looking from Jamie to Fernando and back again as though being left out is some sort of betrayal.

Fernando just shrugs. “You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t know I had to ask.” Carra shakes his head at the tone of this conversation. Stevie is mostly a very centered, very discreet lad, but motherfucking Xabi Alonso can turn his head around like nothing else. To the point he’d start a personal argument with his boyfriend in front of everyone. He's just not himself anymore since they boarded that plane towards the Spanish capital. Two years and he still isn’t over it. “Why with Daniel anyway?”

Pepe snorts, putting his magazine down for the first time. “Why? You mean you haven’t seen what people write about them on the internet?”

Daniel sits up straight and grins; Fernando deadpans at Pepe; Stevie cocks him an eyebrow on the verge of anger like he's the only one who doesn't get it. “What kind of thing?” he asks.

“Dirty stuff. It's called _fanfiction_.”

“I want specifics,” Daniel demands.

“Like I’m going to read about you two having sex.”

“What?!”

“It’s just fan stuff, Stevie,” Fernando says, not at all concerned, looking down at his plate.

“Why would they do that?” Stevie is now as clearly indignant as Daniel is pleased with himself. Carra pinches the bridge of his nose with the tip of his fingers and thinks this is going to be a very long day. He feels the migraine forming in the horizon like dark clouds threatening rain.

“I don’t know, something about the tattoos, I guess,” Pepe shrugs.

“No one cares about stupid tattoos.”

“Hey,” Fernando protests, shooting Stevie with an offended look.

“Sorry.”

“Well,” Daniel starts. Carra knows this isn’t going to be nice even before he says it. “Maybe if you had a tattoo you’d feel younger and cooler and would quit acting like you have a fucking dick up your ass all the time.”

There you go. “Jesus Christ,” the Scouser mumbles, shaking his head. Pepe looks at him with a silent apology; he knows he started it. It’s like that with Stevie and Daniel: they tolerate each other most of the time, but a tiny little spark and you have a freaking explosion.

“Yeah, maybe I’d just start acting like a dick in general like yourself, you shithead.”

“I’m a dick who gets to do half-naked photos with your boyfriend. How do you feel about that?”

“That’s enough!” Carra shouts, slamming the palm of his hands on the tabletop before Stevie gets up from his seat to, predictably, hit Daniel. “What are you, fucking high school girls? Jesus. Stevie, let’s go.”

“But -”

“You don’t get to argue with me right now, you still owe me. So get your arse up and let’s go before I beat the shit out of both of you.”

Fuming, Stevie complies. He gets up none too gently, glares menacingly at Daniel and kisses Fernando’s head. “I’ll see you later,” he says, and then joins Carra as they leave the room.

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” he tells his friend, who snorts derisively in return.

“You should thank me for keeping this band together.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Jamie, not bloody Daniel’s. He’s a twat and a-”

“I know exactly what Dan is.”

“Then why do you always scold me instead of him?!”

“Because you’re supposed to know better. He’s younger than you, more reckless than you and also a hell of a lot angrier. If anyone should be keeping their cool, that’s you, Stevie. I trust you to be the wiser man around, but you always let Agger get to you.”

Stevie opens his mouth to reply, but snaps it back shut, annoyed but not able to counter Carra’s point. 

Jamie is always right. Don’t they fucking get that yet by now?

“Besides,” he continues, getting on the elevator and holding the door for a rather chafed Gerrard. “I didn’t lock you up in a clinic against your will while I fired your boyfriend, so it’s not you I have to be understanding with.”

x-x-x

The photoshoot goes as smoothly as it can possibly go. The camera loves the two of them, apparently, or so says the photographer. There is no sign of the morning altercations and Fernando is thankful enough for Daniel’s general good mood. 

Stevie calls once during the session to ask how it’s all going and moan about how never-fucking-ending meetings with Carra can be. But Fernando suspects the whole conversation was just a built-up to what he really wanted to know - “ _Are you two really half-naked?_ ”

Fernando wouldn’t call ‘no shirts on’ half naked, so he says no, we’re very dressed, and thinks he did a good thing by the noticeable hint of relief on his boyfriend’s voice. 

Afterwards, when they’re done, he sits on a chair with his name on the back - he always wanted one of those; he feels so famous - with a weary look on his face. The stress of this trip and all their professional commitments is taking its toll on him, even if he’s in Spain, Madrid, home. 

Either that or the ghost of a certain Xabier Alonso is starting to become too fucking heavy.

“What’s up your ass?” Daniel asks, coming to join him with a cigarette already in hand.

“Nothing,” he says, nonchalantly. “That shit is going to kill you before you’re thirty.”

Daniel shrugs, blows out the smoke, and smirks. “It’s still better than the option.”

Fernando knows the story about how Daniel ended up on rehab against his will in what was The Red Kop’s biggest crisis ever to date, even more so than Xabi’s decision to leave - and that is saying something. But he never asked, Daniel never deliberately said anything either - it’s not the kind of thing they talk about. Ever. So he just pretends he doesn’t understand or doesn’t care, and says nothing.

“Come on,” Dan says, taking a seat next to him, on a chair with his own name on the back as well, and pets his leg once for encouragement. “Was sex this morning not so great? Is old Stevie's equipment already crashing? You can tell me.”

Fernando frowns. “What?”

“Stevie was being a greater ass than he usually is, and now you look like someone stole your candy bar.”

“We didn’t have sex this morning.”

“That explains it, then.”

The Spaniard laughs shortly, shakes his head. And then something occurs to him. “Tell me something, Dan,” he starts. “Did you see Stevie and Xabi together at that party the other day?”

“You mean the one Stevie ditched leaving Pepe and myself to deal with Carra’s full-on apocalyptic mood?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You sure?”

The Dane shrugs, takes a long drag from his cigarette. “I don’t think he wanted Xabi to find him, Nando. That’s why he fled.”

“I know, but -” he pauses. “Did Xabi talk to you and Pepe?”

“Sure.”

“Was he asking about Stevie?”

Daniel turns his face to him, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “Are you going somewhere with this interrogation?”

Fernando exhales heavily, lets his shoulders drop in a depleted kind of movement. “I don’t know.”

“Then what is it?”

Fernando considers for a second whether to be honest with Daniel or not. They’re friends, all right, but they don’t exactly share stuff. Especially not stuff related to his relationship with Stevie. But this bloody _Xabi_ thing keeps nagging at him and won’t go away for nothing and he just doesn’t know what to do. He needs to ask someone, to say something, just put it out there and see if it floats or sinks.

“He called me Xabi,” he says, slowly. 

Daniel arches him an eyebrow. “ _Called_ you Xabi?” Fernando nods, the Dane gapes. “You mean you two were fuck-”

“No! God, no. I was waking him up, he called me Xabi. Like he was expecting Xabi to be there or something.”

“Oh.” 

Fernando stares at him, waiting for him to say something - a thought, an opinion, call him stupid, anything. But this is Daniel, so he doesn’t, probably considering it all beneath him. 

The Spaniard rolls his eyes and looks away. “This is stupid.”

“Maybe,” Dan agrees. “But it is making you restless.”

“So what do you reckon I should do?”

The Dane grins at him, finishing his cigarette. “Come with me back to the hotel and allow me to buy you a drink.”

“Daniel -”

“I don’t mean any harm, I swear.” Dan raises one palm up in the air in a solemn gesture. “I just really think you could use something to help you relax. And then maybe you can go up to your boyfriend’s room, give him the fuck of his life and make him forget all about Alonso.”

Fernando has to laugh. The boy has no shame. But, surprisingly, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all. “Ok,” he agrees. “Buy me a drink, Agger.”

x-x-x

By the time they make it back to the hotel, Daniel’s pack of cigarettes is empty, and so they walk a little to find a place to get more. ‘ _They don’t have my brand at the stupid hotel_ ’, he explains, disdainfully. ‘ _There’s this café slash convenience store place around the corner_ ’, he says, and so they go.

Daniel is about to open the door and ring the little bell informing there are costumers when Fernando spots them. He closes his fingers around Daniel’s wrist to stop him.

“What?” Daniel asks, but Fernando is not really listening.

On an unpretentious little corner of the café slash store, sitting safely enough away from the windows, Stevie is having a cuppa with a man Fernando’s never laid eyes on before, not personally, anyway, but who he’d recognize even in a dark room.

“Oh, look at that,” Daniel says, amused. “Prince Charming is having coffee with Snow White.”

Fernando lets go of Daniel’s hand and fumbles around his pockets for his phone. He deftly types a text, hits send, and looks back at the table. It takes a few seconds before Stevie fishes out his own mobile, types something back and puts it away again. Fernando’s phone vibrates.

“Son of a bitch!” he groans in anger upon reading the reply.

“What?” Daniel asks, craning his head to look at the little screen. The Spaniard turns the phone to him.

 

_Where r u?  
 **Sent at 7:39pm**_

_Still at meeting. Gonna take a while.  
 **Received at 7:41pm**_

 

Daniel raises his eyes at him, eyebrows comically up in arches of surprise as his lips curve into a smile. “Wow,” he says. “That’s… something.” 

Feeling his blood starting to boil in his veins, Fernando shoots a last glance at the table where his boyfriend is meeting his ex - and lying about it. The Xabi guy has a lopsided grin plastered on his hairy face and eyes like a hawk, lewd intentions bleeding all over. He can’t see Stevie’s face, but even in amidst a wave of rage he thinks it is better this way.

“Let’s go,” he says, and turns around to walk back to the hotel.

Daniel skips behind to catch up. “What, you’re just going to let go? Not even a little scene?”

“Nope.”

“Aw, come on! You have to walk in there! Just stop next to the table, glare at them and leave. It’ll be awesome! Don’t you want to see the look on his face?”

Fernando sighs. “Weren’t you going to buy me a drink?”

“This is much better than a drink, Fernando.”

“You better make it a really strong one, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm in the mood for uploads...

Stevie takes short, tentative steps, feeling the expensive carpet under his socked feet. Everything inside that flat smells and looks like money - from the furniture, to the paintings, to the colors, to the wood of the doors and the fabric of the curtains. It’s all very tasteful, refined, modern - it has Xabi written all over it. 

“Looks like I just walked into a catalogue,” he comments, stopping and turning around to find Xabi still standing next to the door, hands in his pockets, watching him with amusement.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the Spaniard replies.

It looks like a millionaire version of the much smaller, much humbler apartment Xabi used to have in Liverpool, back when future was still uncertain and life surprisingly a lot easier. Stevie thinks this new place, somehow, holds a greater resemblance to its owner than the old one; it’s intimidating and upper class, with a hint of cynicism. It’s exactly what Xabi wanted to achieve when he left and exactly where he wants to be now. And for that reason Stevie decides he likes the old one better, the same way he much prefers the old Xabi to this posh, too-sexy-for-his-shirt upgraded one.

“It’s a nice place,” he says, because it is, really, even if he doesn’t like it.

“Didn’t you expect it to be nice?”

 _No_ , he means to say, _I expected it to be nice, I just wished it wasn’t_. “I didn’t expect anything,” he goes for instead. “To be honest I didn’t even expect to ever see you again.”

“Ah,” Xabi replies, approaching him at last. “Life is full of surprises.”

Stevie’s lips turn upwards in a smile of sorts. “I didn’t know you were fond of clichés.”

“There are many things about me you don’t know anymore, Steven.”

He says that in the gentlest of ways, with ease and sympathy, but it cuts through Stevie’s heart nonetheless. This bearded, calculating man is not the Xabi he used to know like the back of his hand; or rather, he is. Stevie knows he is. And it only makes it worse, because the hurtful truth is that he never knew Xabi at all.

“Who is this?” he asks, nodding his head towards a picture of Xabi with another man, a brunette with shiny gelled-hair, orange skin and diamond earrings. They’re both dressed in tuxedos, looking dapper as the man holds an award in one hand - the other one carefully placed on the small of Xabi’s back. Stevie can’t help but notice the intimacy of the gesture.

“You don’t know him?” Xabi asks, one eyebrow up, stopping shoulder to shoulder with Stevie.

“Should I?”

“Everyone does.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a singer.”

“What kind of singer?”

“The rich and famous kind.”

“Ah,” Stevie nods. “The crappy auto-tuned kind, you mean.”

Xabi laughs. “He’s popular with the young audience. Cristiano Ronaldo.”

The name sounds familiar, but Stevie’s not going to give Xabi the pleasure. He’s five years old when he wants to be. “Never heard of him. Why are you with him there?”

“I produced his last record.”

Stevie turns his face to him. “Is that what you do now?”

“Amongst other things.”

He looks back at the photo, at this Cristiano Ronaldo’s - what kind of stupid name is that, anyway? - hand disappearing behind Xabi’s back. “Did you sleep with him?” he asks, eyeing the other man.

Xabi grins like he’s saying ‘ _Thank you for noticing_ ’. “Yes.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Just a one night stand then?”

“No.”

“So you have slept him many times.”

“I still do, sometimes.”

Stevie’s mouth snaps back shut and he suddenly doesn’t know what to say. He feels weird, betrayed almost, by this new version of Xabi and his recently acquired preferences. It’s as though nothing in the past was ever good enough, was ever real; this is what he digs now, this is what he was always aiming for. Discreet Englishmen were replaced by orange-skinned men with sparkly earrings. 

“So this is the kind of bloke you go for now,” he says, not exactly doing a great job at keeping the bitterness from etching onto his words.

“Jealous?”

“No. Just find it curious.”

“Why?”

“He looks nothing like me.”

Xabi stares at him with merry-eyed amusement and then bursts into laughter. Not one of the most common sounds in the world, Xabi’s laughter. But one of Stevie’s favorites, back in the day. He reckons not many people can get a straight out laughter out of this man.

“Stevie,” he starts. “That would be a bit boring, wouldn’t it? If I only ever went for the same type.”

“Yes, but… He looks… Tacky.”

“Tacky,” Xabi repeats.

“Yes.”

The Spaniard’s eyes flicker away from him for a moment, to the picture, then back again. “He _is_ tacky.”

“Then why do you shag him?”

Xabi shrugs. “Why not?”

Stevie holds Xabi’s gaze for a moment and then looks away, at the colorful paintings on his dark grey wall, and then down at his watch. It’s past 8 now. Carra’s probably already back at the hotel, which means his alibi is gone. If Fernando starts asking - 

“You’re thoughtful,” Xabi says, approaching him, invading his personal space to press their bodies together. He’s got one hand on each side of Stevie’s waist, his fingers digging ever so lightly on his shirt to pull it slowly out of his trousers. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing you should know,” he replies, drily, fighting the urge to shut Xabi up with his mouth. 

“Ah,” the Spaniard says, a look of comprehension gracing his features. “It’s the _boyfriend_.” Disdain is evident in the way he stresses the last word, like it’s a joke, or something that makes it all the more interesting to him. Stevie says nothing. “You’ve come too far to be worried now, Steven.”

He’s right. Stevie knows he’s right. He knows that in just about a minute he’ll be all over Xabi again, like he was just a couple of nights ago, against that filthy bathroom wall. It’s too late to be worried now, indeed, once he agreed to come to his flat. But still. Fernando doesn’t leave his thoughts even as he feels his cock hardening and his heart beating faster as the heat grows and grows and grows…

He feels dirty. 

“You know,” Xabi continues, putting a hand under Stevie's shirt and sliding it up his torso. “I have thought about that many times. Of you, here, with me.” His grin is wolfish, he smells like sex. Xabi kisses his cheek, then up, closer to his ear, and down, on his neck. A succession of tiny little kisses, followed by little bites that become more and more aggressive. “I’ve thought about you, on that couch, when I bought it. I thought you’d look good on it. Naked. Beautiful. I’ve never fucked anyone there.” Stevie closes his eyes, sucks the air in slowly, lets it out again with a shuddering breath and a little moan. Xabi’s hard too. “I saved it for you.”

When he opens his eyes again, Xabi’s looking at him, waiting, pliant. _Bastard_ , Stevie thinks, and finally kisses him.

x-x-x

“He called me Xabi,” Fernando repeats for what is like the 40th time that evening, with the same tune of disbelief as the first one. 

“Yes, Nando.” Daniel indulges his indignation by pouring himself another glass of scotch. Fernando is having tequila. They’re in his hotel room, drinking Fernando’s frustrations away.

“And then he lied to me.”

“He’s an ass.”

“I know!”

“I’ve been saying this for years. No one ever listens to me.”

Fernando sighs. “Why would he do that?”

“It’s in his nature. That’s what asses do.”

Fernando fumbles drunkenly inside his pockets and fishes out his cell phone.

“What are you doing?” Daniel asks.

“I’m calling him.”

The Dane jumps up from where he’s sitting on the bed and takes the phone away from the Spaniard, who frowns at him reprovingly. “Hey!”

“You’re not calling him.”

“Why not?” Fernando tries to get it back, Daniel moves away and puts the phone inside his own pocket.

“Because you’re drunk and that’s pathetic,” Daniel replies, flatly. “You had your chance to confront him at the café, you chose to walk away. If you call him now, you’re just going to say a bunch of emotional crap and make yourself sound like a loser.”

Fernando stares at him, deadpanned. “… What?” he finally manages to ask.

“You’re not calling him,” Daniel states with an air of authority.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“You’ll be thanking me in the morning.”

“I need to do something, Daniel, I’m _angry_.”

Daniel stops, considers his options… “I have an idea,” he says, fixing Fernando with a bright, open smile that morphs quickly into a smirk.

“I’m listening.”

“Sleep with me.”

Fernando keeps his unblinking eyes at him like he’s staring at a blank page for long seconds before saying, “What?”

“Sleep with me,” Daniel repeats. “It’ll be your revenge.”

“You can’t suggest something like that as though you’re picking a shirt for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Fernando pauses, swallows, opens his mouth to reply twice but closes it back again. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Who’s fucking someone else right now.”

“You don’t know that,” Fernando argues. Daniel raises him an eyebrow and cocks his head slightly to the side. “For sure,” he completes. “Even if he is, that’s not going to solve anything.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“What?”

“Solving things by having revenge sex.”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it won’t work?”

“That’s not how I deal with my problems.”

Daniel takes a tentative step closer. “Come on, Nando… You know it makes perfect sense.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Another step. “It’s meant to happen.”

“What the hell, Daniel?”

In one sudden move, Daniel wraps his arms around Fernando in a tight hug. He places a kiss on the tip of the startled Spaniard’s nose. “I won’t make anything if you don’t want me to,” he says. “But I think you should let me.”

Fernando slowly relaxes in his arms, places his hands on Daniel’s shoulders and sighs. “Daniel… I think you’re good looking, and you’re a nice guy, right? But I don’t think it would be right to fall in bed with you, no matter how tempting the idea might be, just because I’m mad at Stevie.”

“Who said this is going to be _only_ about Stevie?”

“What is it going to be about?”

“It will be about the fact I’ve wanted to do you since day one. And about how I think we’d be great together. And, obviously, of course, about how you know this is true because you’ve thought about it too.”

Daniel feels the Spaniard stiffening in his arms, feels his breath faltering, his eyes becoming bigger, doubtful and… fiery. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t move. Just stares.

He’s got this.

“Stevie is doing Xabi,” he whispers to the boy in his arms.

Fernando launches forward and captures his mouth with his own. It’s a filthy kiss; messy and wet and not at all pretty. But it’s like Fernando is both horny and impatient, and maybe, probably, thinking about Gerrard pounding into someone else’s Spanish ass. Daniel doesn’t care. When he takes Fernando’s clothes off, lies on top of him and puts his mouth and hands in places that were Stevie’s only to feel until now, it’s his name that comes out of Fernando's lips. 

That’s good enough for him.

x-x-x

Stevie stops dead on his tracks when he walks into his hotel room and turns on the light. It’s empty. His bed is still perfectly made, everything is exactly the way he left. He doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to be relieved or distressed. Part of him was expecting to find Fernando there, the part that rehearsed his broken excuses all the way from Xabi’s flat to here. The other part was silently praying he wouldn’t have to use them.

Strangely enough, he isn’t completely pleased the latter won.

He checks his phone again; it’s four in the morning, no lost calls, no text messages. It’s not like Fernando to disappear for so long. He’s either feeling very understanding, or very, very angry - the first alternative sounding highly unlikely.

Fernando is not the jealous type. He can’t be, working in this business. But a tiny little voice whispering in the back of his head is telling him Fernando’s not completely detached either, that this isn’t normal. Especially since he knows exactly what Madrid does to his boyfriend's head, and for what reason.

Rubbing his face with his hands and feeling exhaustion creeping up, Stevie decides not to care about this just yet. He needs a shower - an ice cold one - and a good night of sleep. There isn’t a single muscle in his body that doesn’t feel sore and his legs can barely sustain the weight of his body.

He fucked Xabi on the couch - the couch that was bought just for him -, in the kitchen and twice in the bedroom. Xabi fell asleep soundly afterwards, overtaken by tiredness and that brilliant, fulfilling sensation of the afterglow. Stevie, on the other hand, couldn’t keep his eyes shut.

As he stared at the blinding white ceiling of Xabi’s bedroom, Stevie came to a few realizations; the first and most important one was that Xabi is much like getting incredibly, stinking drunk. He seems like the best of ideas in the world while he’s staring at you with his big, malicious eyes, teasing you into his trap. He tastes bitter at first, but only for a moment; once you are too far gone into it, Xabi is nothing but perfect. He is a glass of the best white wine in a sunny afternoon at the balcony of a beach house in the French Riviera: beautiful, tasteful and intense, and it’s like you can never get enough of it. But then… 

Then, once Stevie is sober and sane again, he can’t, for the love of God, figure out why he did it. 

He feels dirty and awful. In the end, he doesn’t get anything from Xabi other than another huge load of guilt to add to his already massive one. Fernando doesn’t deserve this.

Hell, _he_ doesn’t deserve to go back down that road. It was hard enough one time.

But Xabi’s like a drug. His drug. He can’t get away from it, can’t turn it down, but can’t be proud about it either.

Stevie closes his eyes and tries to revel in the knowledge that it will all be over soon; just a few more days and they’ll be back to Liverpool, Xabi will stay in Spain, and that will be that. That has to be enough consolation for now because it's all he's got to cling on to at this point: the hope that all his sins and _stupid, motherfucking Xabi_ will be obliterated from his life like a time zone on the way back to England.

He wakes up the next day to the sound of loud knocks on his door. He takes his phone to look at the time; it’s almost noon. Stevie gets up, still half-asleep, and finds Daniel standing outside.

The Dane grins. “You look good, sunshine,” he says, beaming.

“What do you want, Daniel?” Stevie grumbles.

“Carra asked me to come up here to get you. We have a gig tonight, remember?”

No. As a matter of fact, he’d completely forgotten about it. “Of course.”

“Then get dressed and get down.”

“Right.”

“Ah,” Daniel stops him before he can shut the door, takes an iPhone from his pocket and hands it to Stevie. “Here.”

“What is this?” he asks, but takes the phone anyway.

“It’s Fernando’s.” Stevie raises his eyes to look at Daniel; the hint of sarcasm dancing on the corner of the other man's little smile making something sting inside. “Give it back when you see him, yeah?”

Daniel winks at him and moves to leave. “Why do you have his phone?” Stevie asks.

Daniel turns to him with an air of self-satisfaction so great about him that it’s almost like he was just praying for that question to come. Stevie nurtures a near constant desire to punch Daniel in the face for several different reasons, but it has never felt quite as strongly as right now.

“He forgot it in my room.”

Sleep completely leaves his body as he watches as Daniel walks away, whistling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just feel the need to remind you all that English is not my first language and this chapter has not been beta'ed! Mistakes are all mine, but please be kind. :( I'm making an effort! But I apologize beforehand for any slips you might find.

The afternoon passes by rather quickly, all things considered. Stevie worried it would be one of those days when the clock refuses to tick, but there is so much to be done before their last show in Madrid he barely has time to cast deadly, suspicious glances around. As a matter of fact, the only moment he gets to interact with his boyfriend is during sound check. Stevie manages to go all the way through lunch, through the set list definition, through sound check, to the actual show time, merely fuming, as opposed to assaulting someone (Daniel).

And that night, they are brilliant. They are brilliant like they hadn’t been in a long time. Like they weren’t on their first Spanish concert. The crowd is going wild at every chord and every verse; they can feel it too. They feel the heart and the pain and the anger they’re putting into it. It’s one of their best gigs ever, one of those to make everything worth-wile. Stevie would give everything to be stuck forever in this one glorious moment where the adrenalin is rushing, the fans are singing his songs, shouting his name, music is flowing through him, emanating from him, and nothing in the world matters. It’s the best feeling anyone can ever feel and he could live in it for the rest of his life. 

It's incredible and brilliant and he could stay there forever, but it's not _perfect_. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can’t avoid noticing Fernando and Daniel searching for each other on stage throughout the whole thing. They stop side by side, they play looking into each other’s eyes, they laugh together. There are girls going crazy out there, Stevie can hear them screaming louder than everyone else when the two of them come near one another. He doesn’t know what is it, but for whatever reason their fans seem to think if any two of them should be shagging, it should be Daniel and Fernando. If only they knew whose bed that fan-favorite is sharing...

Tonight, however, it’s not just about teasing the audience. There’s chemistry there. They are being drawn together as if that’s the natural thing to happen on that stage, like they’re better by being closer. Fernando’s eyes are sparkling with euphoria and he looks gorgeous under the spotlight, sweaty and disheveled and ecstatic, but it’s Daniel he’s smiling at.

When they’re done, though, and the show’s over and everyone is having a celebratory beer backstage, Fernando disappears from sight. Rage takes over Stevie in a sharp wave for a second, right before he spots Daniel having a laugh with Carra and quiets down again. For a moment there he thought… Well. 

He finds Fernando searching about the band’s dressing room with a sense of urgency.

“Hey,” he says, and shuts the door behind him.

Fernando, shirt off, hair glued to his forehead and neck and cheeks burning red, raises his eyes at Stevie in surprise. “Hey,” he replies. “Didn’t see you there.” His lips quirk up in a shy smile, but he doesn’t sustain Stevie’s gaze for too long. The Spaniard picks up his bag and starts fumbling inside.

“Looking for something?”

“Yes,” Fernando says, eyebrows drawn together in frustration. “My phone. I was sure I had it in my bag, but now I can’t find it.” 

_Of course you can’t_. He goes to his own bag and fishes out the smartphone. Stevie thought about confronting his boyfriend before the gig, but the most reasonable side of him kept shouting that it was a stupid idea to pick up a fight before such an important concert. It was best that they stayed focused. It paid off, after all. “You mean this one?” he asks.

Fernando’s eyes widen in bafflement. “Did you take my phone?” He approaches Stevie and snatches the mobile away from him, immediately starting to tinker with it, probably thinking Stevie did it out of spite or suspicion and went through his messages and photos or whatever. He didn't, as a matter of fact. Considering how he got the phone - or who he got the phone from - it would be excusable if he had, but there are still boundaries Stevie refuses to cross. Instead of searching for evidence, he kept the phone away from sight to avoid temptation and decided to wait for Fernando to answer all the million questions he has in his head. If he refuses, well - Daniel's probably going to be thrilled to do it for him.

“I didn’t take it,” the Englishman explains, calmly. “It was given to me.” He pauses. “By Daniel.” 

He notices Fernando’s fingers freezing momentarily over the little screen. “Oh,” he says, not meeting his eyes. 

“He said you forgot it in his room.”

After considering several possibilities to the piece of information Daniel so kindly shared with him earlier - _“He forgot it in my room.”_ \- and feeling positively sick by all of them, Stevie decided not to assume the worst. Mostly because he isn’t exactly holding the moral high ground in their relationship just now. But now, with Fernando looking down and away and refusing to face him, he’s feeling more than a tinge of jealousy welling up inside. 

“Yeah,” Fernando states simply, still focusing on his phone. “It's possible.”

"Possible?"

"Maybe."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. Just that I might have forgotten it in his room."

“May I ask why would you forget your phone in Daniel’s hotel room?” He tries to stay calm, but sounds rather dry. “What were you doing in his room?”

“Didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to go there.” The Spaniard finally looks up, and he seems almost… defiant. “I was waiting for you to show up. After your... _meeting_ … With Carra.” Fernando nearly spits the last part out.

Stevie feels a bit of a stab, but remains impassive. “It took me longer than I thought.” A sickening sensation invades him as he keeps a lie that’s clearly been overrun. He used to be better than this.

“Ah.” Fernando nods his head. “I see. It’s funny, though,” he starts, as he moves to the couch and takes a seat. “Carra was there when I left. But you were nowhere to be found. Must’ve been a really rough day.”

Stevie’s eyes flicker away from him, then back again. “I was having a drink with some of the blokes we met. Carra had other important things to sort out.”

“I’m sure he had.”

Stevie feels a hard awkwardness falling over them, surrounding them, becoming almost a presence in the room. He focuses on Fernando’s fingers, drumming softly over his phone, one by one touching the screen, rhythmically and gracefully. He thinks of Xabi and Daniel, and how his perfect relationship suddenly took a downturn to hell in less than five days. 

It’s right then that he knows he has to either leave that dressing room or say something, both being metaphors of something bigger, acts that would translate into decisions. It's either take it or leave it.

He chooses to stay.

Taking one big breath, Stevie sits down next to Fernando. “Look,” he begins, uncertain of where he’s going with this. “I know I owe you an apology. I’ve been acting like a dick lately. It’s this city, I - I can’t - I don’t know what is it about this place, but it just - it gets me on edge, all the fucking time.”

Fernando studies him quietly for a moment. “But you do know, don’t you? We both do, actually.” He looks almost sad, almost defeated, but doesn’t avert his eyes this time. “It’s him.”

And that… That he can’t deny. He thinks maybe he should feel worse than he does, should be terrible and heartbroken, but he isn’t. As angry as Xabi makes him feel, he doesn’t regret it. There’s something very wrong with that, obviously, and Stevie knows that. But instead of doing the right thing, he stays silent and allows Fernando to connect the dots himself. 

“What is it about him?” the other man finally asks. “Ever since we got here it’s like - something snapped in you and you just… Stopped being yourself.”

Well, that pretty much sums it up perfectly. 

“I don’t know,” he answers, honestly. 

Fernando looks thoughtful for a while and then, “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“What kind of feeling you mean.”

The Spaniard almost rolls his eyes, but doesn’t. “Do you still _love_ him?” He nearly chokes on ‘love’.

“I don’t,” Stevie replies, and he makes it genuine, ignoring that hint of doubt at the back of his head. “It’s complicated. There are… things, in the past, a history, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I thought I did, but I don’t. I guess… There are things unresolved. But it’s not - like that,” he says, slowly, measuring out each word.

“Are you sure?”

Stevie shakes his head once in affirmation. “I’m sorry,” he continues, still not finding the courage to own up to the whole truth, even if, deep down, he knows Fernando understands without the need of spelling it out to him. 

When he took that phone out of Daniel’s hands he imagined their confrontation would be a lot louder and definitely angrier than this. Instead, they’re both gloomy and sulking and in loss for what to say. There is a false sense that it might be better this way, but screaming and swearing would probably make it more honest. 

He takes Fernando’s hand from his mobile, intertwines their fingers together and gives it a light squeeze. “This was meant to be a good night. Celebrating and everything. And here we are instead.”

A shy half-smile dances on the corner of Fernando’s lips, softening out the edges of bitterness on his expression. “We’re not in one of our finest moments, are we?” he asks.

Suddenly Stevie remembers how beautiful he looked out there, radiant and joyful under the stage lights; remembers feeling proud of him and at the same time so, so scared. 

Fernando gives a sense of constancy to his life. Of certainty. Honesty. Xabi is more like… Well, the opposite. He's adventure, or danger, or excitement. Everything at once, maybe. But then, he was always like that. Ever since Stevie can remember there was always an implicit question mark where Xabi is concerned, and, if anything, it’s even worse now. Stevie never knows what Xabi is playing at, while Fernando is not fond of schemes and fabrications. He’s just what he is, what you see is what you get, whereas Xabi feels too much like taking a gamble.

Xabi is an all-consuming passionate hate that turns his head around like nothing else, while Fernando is… love. Simple, unhindered and totally unpretentious. 

Stevie, he doesn’t know what he wants. But he knows this: when he saw this man, who still looks so much like a boy sometimes, next to Daniel on stage, he feared losing him for the first time in his life.

He leans over Fernando, slowly, asking for his permission, and places a small kiss on his lips when he senses he’s not going to get pushed away. It occurs to him that this is their first kiss in days. “I missed you,” he whispers against his boyfriend's mouth, counting the freckles on his face like they all belong to him, to make sure they weren’t stolen away by some Danish punk.

“I was right here,” Fernando replies.

“I know,” another kiss. “I’m here now.” He places one hand on Fernando’s waist to pull the Spaniard closer and the other one rests on the curve of his neck. Fernando feels resistant at first, takes a few blinks to part his lips and allow Stevie’s tongue way into his mouth, but finally begins to relax under his ministrations.

Stevie pushes him back down on the couch, lying half on top of him in a slightly uncomfortable way as both grown men try to fit onto a tiny space. When he finally sees a smile gracing his boyfriend’s face, it’s like a million pounds are taken off of his shoulders. “Someone could walk in on us,” Fernando says, but doesn’t move.

“I’ve locked the door,” he lies, and kisses him again. Fernando curls his hands on Stevie’s skin and kisses him back. 

Normally, Stevie’s as discreet about his personal life as he can possibly be. But right now he wouldn’t mind Daniel Agger bursting into the dressing room to get a hell of a private show - and also a fucking back-off warning.

x-x-x

_**Four years earlier…** _

“Well, well,” Stevie says, lopsided grin revealing his already tipsy, to say the least, condition, as he takes on a bar stool next to a pensive Spaniard. Xabi's very quietly nursing a glass of whiskey as though he’s alone in a gloomy living room and not in a bar, in the middle of a celebration. “Hello there, beauty,” he says, turning on the charm. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Xabi’s forehead crinkles as he smiles awkwardly. “I already have a drink,” he says, lifting his glass.

“You look like you could use another one.” Stevie whistles to the bartender and leans over the bar sideways to ask for something before sitting back down. “You do realize Pepe’s right there,” he points a finger towards a booth somewhere behind them, “being restrained by Carra to not climb on the table _as_ he sings God Save the Queen.” The bartender brings them four shots of something colorful and unidentified, two of which Stevie slides towards the other man across the counter. “Why would you miss something like that? Cheers.” Stevie salutes Xabi and downs the first of his shots.

“I’m tired,” Xabi says, finishing his drink. 

“You have your entire life to be tired; you can’t be tired on the night when all your efforts finally paid off. This is the time to celebrate, Xabier.” He takes the second shot. “Come on, have your drink.”

“What is this?”

“Just drink it.”

Xabi raises his glass and eyes it with suspicion; it’s a blue-pink mess, maybe also yellow-ish. Definitely not the kind of thing he’s used to. He has a personal thing against colorful drinks. It’s just not what alcohol is meant to taste like, in his opinion. But what the heck? 

This one in particular tastes like a huge mistake. It's like burnt rubber with a mango juice someone threw up on. “Jesus Christ,” he says, sticking out his tongue and making a face. “What the hell is this?”

Stevie grins. “Something I made up myself. You don’t like it?”

“Like it? I think I might pass out.”

Stevie laughs and shakes his head. “I take it you’re not having this one then.” Xabi motions his hand on a ‘be my guest’ sort of way and Stevie downs the last drink as well. “Give me another thirty minutes and I’ll be joining Pepe on top of that table.”

Xabi grins him a white-toothed grin, but doesn’t say anything. Stevie sighs and bumps his shoulder with his own. “What is it?”

“Nothing, just… Thinking.”

“You think too much, Xabi. That makes you look older.”

“I thought it made me look smarter?”

“Young people are supposed to be reckless and live in the moment, not look smart.”

“There’s enough recklessness in our band between you, Pepe and Dan. Someone needs to do the thinking.”

“We have Carra for that. And Finns.”

Xabi rolls his eyes. “Finns is definitely good at thinking, yes.”

“That’s not the point, Xabi.” Stevie holds his gaze, means to touch him but keeps his hand back. “What are you thinking about?”

Xabi shrugs. “Life. The past, what we’ve done, where we are. And the future. Where I’ll be in five years, ten. You know. That kind of thing.”

“In five years you’ll be playing in front 50 thousand people in some ridiculously big stadium somewhere, even bigger than Anfield. That’s where. Xabi, we just signed our first record deal, for fuck's sake. Can you even believe that? Everything we ever dreamed of, it’s finally here. This is it!”

Xabi feels a jolt of something powerful going through him. He’s supposed to be overtaken by euphoria and happiness, all the things he sees Stevie wearing as bright as daylight on his face, but, instead, he feels sad. Sad because Stevie is so happy while he’s awfully melancholic.

How do you tell someone whose dream just came true that you’re not quite sure holding a guitar in front of thousands of people is where you want to be in five years? Which thus can be translated into: I'm not sure I'll be with you in five years.

“I know,” he says instead. “I know, and I’m just as happy as you are.” Half of him is, anyway. Half of him is really happy for Stevie and the lads. The problem is that the half that should be just as glad for himself is not keeping up.

“And yet, you’re there by yourself, enjoying a boring glass of whiskey with that dark cloud dancing over your head.”

“I don’t have a dark cloud.”

“Yes, you do. And it’s keeping me from enjoying myself. So get up and start having some fun.” He takes Xabi’s hand, squeezes it strongly once, and then pulls him off his stool. “Leave your worries for tomorrow. Tonight we celebrate.” Stevie’s smile is so big and earnest he can’t really help but return it.

Xabi gets on his feet and squeezes his boyfriend's hand back. “All right, then,” he says. “Let’s celebrate.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Ok, so I’ve got the light blue one and the dark blue one,” he says, keeping the phone between his ear and his shoulder and holding one bottle on each hand. 

“ _What does it say on the light blue bottle_?” Fernando asks on the other end of the line.

“Semi-skinned,” he replies, turning the bottle a little to read the label. 

“ _And the other one?_ ”

“Ahm… low fat?”

“ _Just low fat?_ ”

“Yes.”

Fernando sighs audibly; Stevie rolls his eyes. Fernando put him in charge of grocery shopping for the week only two days after they returned from Spain (‘ _Seriously, look at this fridge, Stevie_ ’, he said, ‘ _We have half a cheese, half a beer and half a… I think this is old Chinese, but I’m afraid to say it. It’s embarrassing._ ’). That, unfortunately, involves his goat milk. Fernando watched a documentary on some Discovery Whatever channel one day and now he refuses to have the normal people kind of milk. Stevie finds it disgusting - what kind of person drinks milk that comes from a _goat_? Milk is supposed to come from cows, period. But he wouldn’t be too bothered by his boyfriend’s odd taste if only it wasn’t such a hard task to find the specific type he likes.

“Take your time, Nando,” he says with pure irony, putting the bottles back on the shelf and taking a look at his half full cart. He’s got almost everything, still needs beer, soap and ice cream. Now that's the kind of grocery real men get, not fucking goat milk. 

“ _Are you sure these two are the only types they have_?”

“Jesus Christ, Fernando. It’s all just milk that comes from a goat. They might all even come from the same bloody goat. Just pick one.”

“ _These are not the right types, Stevie._ ”

“Then I won’t take it.”

“ _But I need my milk_!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

“ _Wait. Ok_ ,” he pauses. Stevie can almost see the creases on his forehead forming as his boyfriend considers his options. “ _Dark blue. No, no! Light blue. No! … Yes, Light blue._ ”

Stevie sighs and takes the bottle. “Are you sure?”

The length of the pause would make anyone think Fernando's about to answer a million pounds question. “ _Yes, I’m sure._ ” 

“Terrific.”

Just as he's about to put the bottle in his cart, Stevie feels his phone vibrating against the side of his face. He leaves the milk back on the shelf and takes a look at the screen. There’s a call from an unknown international number.

“Hey, Nando,” he says. “I have to go. I’ll see you at home, ok?”

“ _Get me two bottles._ ”

“Sure. Bye.”

Stevie finishes the call with his boyfriend and lets his finger hover over the phone screen for a moment before taking the new one. He has a strange feeling about this number and it’s not a good one.

“Hello?”

“ _Hello, Steven_ ,” a different sort of Spanish accent replies from the other end of the line. Stevie presses his lips tightly closed, doesn’t say anything. His heart starts racing in his chest and he’s not sure whether it’s anger or… something else. 

He doesn’t remember giving this number to Xabi. How the hell did he get it?

“ _Stevie?_ ” Xabi asks again upon getting nothing but digital silence.

“What do you want, Xabi?”

“ _Wow._ ” Stevie can hear the grin on his face. For whatever reason, rejection seems to turn the bastard on. “ _Warm greeting._ ”

“How did you get my number?”

“ _It wasn’t that hard, actually._ ”

“Why are you calling?”

“ _To check up on you. See how you’re doing. The usual. I’m fine too, by the way. Thanks for asking._ ”

 _Usual_ , Stevie thinks, and snorts in derision. “I have bad news for you, Xabi. Your English is deteriorating since you moved away. I’m not sure you still remember the meaning of the word ‘usual’,” he says, and starts pushing his cart through the supermarket.

“ _Did I catch you in a bad day?_ ”

“You just made my day bad.”

Xabi exhales. “ _I thought we were past that._ ”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“ _Hostilities. Unasked-for abuse._ ”

“Oh, you think this is unasked for?”

“ _I thought we’d left the animosity behind the moment you decided to come to my flat and have sex with me, but my bad. I probably got it wrong._ ” Xabi’s voice is completely nonchalant, which only makes it all the more annoying.

“We had, until you started calling me back home.”

“ _Where are you right now?_ ”

Stevie pauses. “Liverpool, of course.”

“ _I mean where in Liverpool._ ”

“Is this going to be one of those weird phone sex sessions? Because I’ll just hang up.”

The sound of Xabi’s rich laughter reverberates through the line and makes him grip the cart with such strength his knuckles start turning white. “ _I like phone sex just fine, but I had something more physical in mind._ ” 

Stevie swallows back a response, bites his lower lip as to not let a loud grunt betray his practiced coolness. But he can’t avoid the nerve-jangling sensation at the pit of his stomach. He hears a clicking sound on the background. 

“ _I’m asking because I just checked in at the Hilton._ ”

Stevie comes to an abrupt halt. “You what?”

“ _My room is -_ ”

“I don’t want to know which room you’re at!” he cries, cutting Xabi off with a tone that is meant to be authoritative but is maybe a little too desperate for that.

“ _Why? Afraid you won’t be able to resist temptation?_ ”

“What the fuck are you doing in Liverpool? Are you stalking me?”

“ _This isn’t stalking, Stevie. I am merely informing you of my arrival. I actually have an award ceremony to attend._ ”

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, suddenly remembering the event to which he has, obviously, been invited to as well. He received the invitation over a month before. Carra insisted at the time that it is very important they all show up, knowing how part of the Red Kop is dangerously inclined towards ditching social events that are not strictly on the job description. _’It’s visibility and marketing! I work my arse all year to get you twats invited to that kind of crap, so you’re all going to look dapper and smart and smile to the fucking photos. Don’t care if your mama dies, you can bring the coffin as your plus one, but you better make damn sure you’ll be there,’_ were the words he used. Can't really be any more persuasive than that.

Stevie tries to quickly calculate how awkward it will be if the lead singer doesn’t show up.

“It’s a two hours flight from Madrid. I’m pretty certain you didn’t need to arrive a week before the date,” he says, counting six whole days until the big party at the Hilton Liverpool Hotel. 

“ _I lived in this city for over five years, Steven, I think I’m allowed to pay a visit and see how things are going around here_.”

“Right. Because that's something you’ve often considered in the past two years.”

There’s a loud sound of weary breathing on the other end. “ _You really won’t let this go, will you?_ ”

“Life must be pretty easy from where you stand, Xabi, I admire that.”

“ _It’s far from easy, actually. But I try not to overcomplicate it whenever the power is in my hands. Maybe you should too_.” He falls silent for a moment and Stevie considers hanging up. It’s the reasonable thing to do, just hang up and pretend he never heard of Xabi being in town. But he waits too long and the moment passes, and then Xabi is speaking again. “ _I have to admit I was expecting a little more excitement from you._ ”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he says, a harsh wave of sarcasm cutting through his voice.

“ _You’re never a disappointment_ ,” Xabi replies light-heartedly. “ _Only a nuisance at times_.”

“Xabi,” he starts, trying to sound as calm and mature as he possibly can despite the cold sweat on his forehead. “I don’t care what your agenda is -”

“ _Agenda_?” Xabi interrupts him, mildly surprised, possibly offended as well.

Stevie ignores him and keeps on going, lest he begins to tumble over his words. “Whatever happened in Madrid, stays in Madrid. It was wrong and now it’s over. You can’t walk in and out of my life at your will like it’s a fucking catwalk. We’re done, Xabi. We’ve been done for a long time and that’s how we’ll stay. Do whatever you need to do but stay out of my way and disappear from my sight once that ceremony is over.”

Much to his own surprise, Stevie actually manages to keep his voice steady and his tone sharp enough to the point of rudeness. He balls his free hand on a fist, then stretches his fingers out again and notices they are still shaking; not nearly as poised as he should be, then. But as long as Xabier doesn’t notice. That man can smell weakness miles away; if you leave so much as a tiny crack open he’ll find a way in. And the really problematic part is that Stevie hadn't realized until now how completely devoid of self-control he is when it comes to that fucking ginger-bearded asshole. You'd think he'd be over that two years after getting his ass dumped, or at the very least grown some balls and gotten a grip of himself. Apparently not.

There is a pregnant pause that lengthens, seems to hang on for hours, before the reply comes.

“ _Ok_ ,” Xabi says, frostily. “ _If that’s what you want._ ”

“It is.”

“ _All right then, Steven. I apologize for misreading the signals and causing you trouble._ ” 

_Like a child_ , Stevie thinks. Like a bloody child, pouting and being all polite to guilt him into regret. There’s a hurtful edge on Xabi’s well-practiced formality, but Stevie won’t go further into it. He’s winning here, he can’t back down now.

“As long as that was the last of it.”

“ _All right. I’ll see you at the gala then._ ” Xabi pauses. “ _Goodbye, Steven._ ”

Only when the phone is off and back in his pocket does Stevie realize that they never actually did say goodbye the first time they broke up. The air of definitiveness about their conversation lingers on for a while.

_Goodbye, Steven._

Well, good-fucking-bye.

x-x-x

“Stevie,” Fernando calls his boyfriend, face buried in the shopping bags. He’s searched all three of them at least five times. It is definitely not here. “Is this everything?” he asks, going through it once more just to make sure. Cheese, frozen stuff, beer, soda, bananas, more frozen stuff, tuna, beer again, vodka… “It’s not in here, are you sure you brought all the bags from the car? Stevie?”

Fernando looks up at the other man and finds him staring blankly at the kitchen window, eyes lost somewhere hundreds of miles away. He obviously didn’t listen to a word he said.

“Stevie,” he calls again. Nothing. “ _Stevie_!”

Gerrard blinks out of his trance and turns to him like he hadn’t even noticed he was there. “What?”

“Are you sure you brought all the bags from the car?” he lifts one of the bags, showing him exactly what he’s talking about, just in case. Stevie looks completely out of tune.

“Yes.”

“Are you _sure_?”

“I just said, yes," he replies, impatiently. “Why?”

“My goat milk.”

“What about it?”

“It’s not here.”

“Of course it is.”

“If it’s not turned invisible, then it isn’t.”

Stevie rolls his eyes and joins him by the counter, going through the bags with the same sort of impatience he’s carrying in his voice. After a moment, though, he groans loudly and lets down the bags. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I forgot it.”

“In the car?”

“No. At the supermarket.”

Fernando arches his eyebrows at him. “You paid for it and left the bag there?”

“No, I forgot it… on the shelf.”

“You… what?”

“I’m sorry, ok?” He raises his palms in a defensive gesture, but sounds way too biting for someone who is apologizing. “I got distracted.”

“That’s impossible. You had it in your hands while I was talking to you.”

“It happens, ok?!” 

Fernando is not the kind of guy who would throw a fit over something as fickle as this, regardless of how much he wants his goat milk - and he really, _really_ does. He _needs_ to have his morning cereal, which is the only thing he ever eats for breakfast, and he _needs_ to have his hot chocolate before bed, but he can only do that if he has goat milk, which means he'll have to go out himself now and buy it even though his partner spent the last hour in the supermarket and had as top priority on his list getting him the damn goat milk. Still. He's not going to be mad about that. If he's going to get mad, it's going to be about something else. Like the way Stevie looks and sounds defensive and plain annoyed even though he obviously screwed up. It's just setting Fernando on edge. His mind is clearly wandering somewhere else, and Fernando’s not sure where, but he doesn’t like it.

Suddenly, something occurs to him.

“Who was it?”

“What?”

“On the phone. When you hung up, it sounded like you had another call. Who was it?”

Fernando thinks he sees something like worry crossing Stevie’s eyes for just a second, then it’s gone and he’s just wearing back that irritation mask again. “No one.”

“It was obviously someone. And whoever that was, it distracted you. It’s still distracting you.”

“I’m not having this conversation.” 

“What the hell is wrong with you? You were fine this morning. A trip to the supermarket and you get all snappy?” Fernando says, hands on his hips, a mix of concern and bitterness on the sharp frown of his forehead. He’s getting into a fight that doesn’t make any sense.

“I’m tired, that’s what. I hate shopping, I can’t pick the right stuff and I’m not gonna let you nag me over a fucking bottle of milk.”

“I’m not -”

“Next time you want your stupid milk you can go get it yourself.” He turns around and stomps out of the kitchen.

Fernando hears the sound of his heavy footsteps up the stairs fading away and then the loud bang of a door being closed with no delicacy at all. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. What in hell’s name just happened?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remind you all that this chapter hasn't been beta'ed and that English is not my first language! I did try my best to catch all the silly mistakes, but you'll probably still find a few (let's hope it's only a few!). I apologize beforehand!

_Seven months earlier..._

“All right,” Fernando says, putting down a cardboard box near the bed and taking a deep breath. “That’s the last of it, then. Just gave the key back to the landlord. I am officially roofless.”

Stevie rolls his eyes and puts down the book he was reading right before his boyfriend walked into his bedroom. “So dramatic.” He taps the spot right next to him on the bed and waits for Fernando to join him. Not without some hesitation, the Spaniard does. He sits with his back against the cushioned head of the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Stevie. “Look, Simba. Everything the light touches is your roof,” the Scouser announces, waving his arm in front of Fernando.

“It’s still _your_ roof.”

“Stop being such a downer, Nando. You’ve been filling my closet with plaid shirts for two weeks.” Fernando squints reprovingly at him. “Why are you like that now?”

The Spaniard sighs and crosses his long, stretched legs. “Because this is definitive now. That was your last chance to change your mind, now you can’t kick me out anymore.”

“Kick you out? I bought you freaking goat milk yesterday.”

“It’s good for your health, Stevie.”

“It’s disgusting, is what it is. But I bought it anyway. _Mi casa, su casa_ now.”

Fernando smiles. “Oh, you know what they say… You don’t go looking elsewhere if you got what you need at home.”

“Exactly. At _home_.”

The Spaniard looks down at his own lap. “Hey,” Stevie says, holding the other man's chin and turning his face so that Fernando has to look him in the eye. “Why are you so insecure about this? You said yes when I asked you, we get along fine, you were practically living here anyway.”

“I know, but -” he stops, sighs, tries again. “Living together is almost a marriage.”

Stevie feigns a hurt look. “What’s wrong with marrying me? I’m a good husband.”

Nando chuckles and shoves him away playfully. “It’s not you, it’s -” he pauses. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“Why wouldn’t it work?”

“I don’t know, sometimes it just doesn’t.”

“Well, all you have to do is be a good wife and we’ll be fine.”

“Call me your wife again and we won’t.”

Stevie laughs and tackles Fernando down on the bed, pinning him against the mattress and proceeding to place several wet little kisses on his face.

“Stop it!” Fernando says, in between waves of laughter. “You’re drooling all over me!”

“I’m welcoming you, Nando! To your new home!”

Fernando finally stops trying to fight him off and looks up, his eyes softened. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.” Stevie punctuates his phrase with a kiss on his temple.

Fernando quiets down, glances away from Stevie. That air of a misplaced melancholy takes over him once more. “But what happens when we break up?” he asks.

“ _When_?”

“If.”

“ _If_?!”

“You know.”

“I really don’t. Why are you even thinking about that?”

“Because it’s not going to be just me giving you a box with your CDs and a dirty sweater, is it? It’s going to be me packing all my bags and having nowhere to go.”

“Jesus, Fernando. You just moved in and you’re already thinking about moving out?”

“I’m thinking in general.”

Stevie presses his mouth close to his boyfriend’s ear and whispers, “We’re not breaking up.”

“Have you ever been in a relationship that didn’t end before?” Fernando pushes Stevie away momentarily and shifts under him to accommodate the Englishman. “Because I haven’t.”

Stevie suddenly finds himself thinking about something he hadn’t in a long time. A different kind of Spanish accent that had said no to him years back when he suggested moving in together. Back when they didn’t have the number one album in the UK, success seemed really far away and his house wasn’t so big it felt lonely sometimes. 

He never thought _that_ relationship would end, never thought Xabi would walk out on them. On him. But, in hindsight, the signals were always there. Xabi was always saying goodbye in between the lines. Stevie just chose not to hear it.

Fernando is different, somehow. He wants so bad to stay he’s afraid he’ll have to go.

“There’s a first time for everything, Fernando,” he says, and kisses him properly until the Spaniard loses his will to protest or resist, until he feels the other man melting away in his arms. “Now,” he says, rubbing their noses together. “Can you please wipe that misery off your face? It’s annoying.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t meant to -”

“It doesn’t matter. This might be my house, but it’s our home now. Besides…” and Stevie fixes him with a broad, cheeky smile. “Just think about all the sex we’ll get to have.”

“Ah,” Fernando says. “I knew there was a motivation behind all this. You just want me here for practical reasons. And for my body.”

“Have you _seen_ your body?”

“ _¿Pero serás gilipollas?_ ” Fernando says playfully, and Stevie has no fucking clue what he means, but he smiles back anyway.

“ _Hablar no más_ ,” he says, and by the way Fernando starts laughing he knows he got it all wrong, but it doesn’t matter; soon enough his boyfriend’s kissing him again.

Stevie is not fond of clichés, but he cannot fathom how something that feels so right could one day turn out to be wrong. He didn’t think he’d find happiness again when Xabi packed his bags and boarded a flight to Madrid without so much as a second thought. 

It may not be happiness just yet, but it is definitely something to begin with.

x-x-x

Daniel calls him a week after they’re back in England. “ _Come and have a drink with me_ ,” he says. Fernando’s first reply is “Are you out of your mind?” because, honestly.

Stevie is sitting in front of the telly, yelling like an insane person at the men in red jerseys on the screen. He goes into a completely different place once he gets into his football mood. It’s just him and Liverpool, nothing comes between them. He probably doesn’t even know Fernando is under the same roof as him right now, but the Spaniard keeps his voice down and his eyes electric, watching over his shoulder to make sure he’s not being followed or heard.

The mere act of answering that phone call feels like cheating. 

But Daniel is defiant and not the type to take an easy no for an answer, so he challenges on. “ _Why not?_ ” he asks, and makes sure to add, “ _Are we not friends anymore?_ ”

Fernando closes his eyes, inexpressibly pained, and doesn’t come up with a good enough reason as to why two friends - two _band mates_ \- shouldn’t be having a drink together, even though he knows he ought to have at least a dozen.

He doesn’t tell Stevie he’s heading to Daniel’s when he leaves.

“What did you tell him?” Daniel asks once they’re well settled in his living room, looking incredibly amused and very self-confident as he pours bourbon for himself and wine for Fernando. It’s a little annoying how he seems to be in a competition with Stevie all the time.

“I told him I was out jogging,” Fernando says, under his breath. It sounds a lot lamer now than it did at the moment.

Daniel studies his expression for a second and then nods. “Not the best I’ve heard, but it does the trick, I guess.”

“This is just a drink, Daniel. And only because I think we need to set the record straight.”

“Sure.”

“It is.”

“Ok.”

“I mean it!”

Daniel sits down on his couch, props his feet up on his coffee table and sips from his drink. “I would never think otherwise.” 

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I just agreed with you, didn’t I?”

Fernando stares at his friend with very stern eyes. “Stop patronizing me.”

Daniel smiles a dangerous little smile at him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m trying to see how long your resolve will last.”

The Spaniard takes a large gulp of his wine and leaves the glass on the table. “Look,” he starts, and means to sound didactic, so he looks Daniel right in the eye. “What we did in Madrid had a purpose, and I’ll admit it, it was fun. But it’s over. It was one crazy night, but we’re not in Spain anymore. I live with my boyfriend here. We share a bed. He cooks me breakfast, he makes my scrambled eggs exactly how I like them.”

“Oh, isn’t Stevie just heaven?” Daniel finishes his sentence with a roll of his eyes. 

“ _The point is_. You and I - we’re over, Dan. It happened once, it was good, but that’s it.”

The Dane crosses his arms over his chest and straightens up his posture as he gazes back at Fernando with his eyes narrowed to slits. The analytical air about his face makes him look quite intimidating. The Spaniard picks his glass back up on an attempt to hide behind it.

“Your boyfriend,” Daniel starts, pauses, munching the words before continuing with a tone of indifference. “Is an asshole.”

Fernando frowns, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not an idea he necessarily shares, but he hasn’t been feeling very protective of Stevie these days. And nothing he says will change Daniel’s opinion anyway.

“You’re worried about playing housewife with him while you know, as well as I do, that he spent five days at _your_ home town furiously banging his ex-boyfriend.”

Fernando feels a pang shoot straight to his heart. This is still a sensitive subject, although he spends half his time acting like he’s either above all of it or satisfied with his adventurous little revenge. He’s neither, to be truthful. But as he calmly licks his lips, he looks as though he is. “Well, thank you for the adverb. I very much like to think about my boyfriend _furiously_ in bed with other men. That was a nice touch.”

“The point is, he was.”

“And so was I. I guess that makes us even. And in a very… disturbed relationship.”

“But -”

“Ok, Daniel, stop.” Fernando cuts him off and stands up. “This is just terrible. You can’t keep using Xabi to get me in bed. I don’t know what you think I am, but I should clarify it to you that I’m neither a slut nor some weapon you can use to hurt Stevie.”

Daniel holds his gaze for a second before letting the air out slowly in a weary sigh. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” He finishes his drink and stands up as well, stopping few feet away from Fernando. The short distance makes the blond queasy - and maybe also rethinking parts of what he just said. “That was low of me.”

“It was.”

“This isn’t about Stevie, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just trying to prove to you that he doesn’t deserve your concern. If you want to stay with him, then stay with him. But don’t hold yourself back on his account. He’s already proved he’s not willing to do the same for you.”

“Wow, Daniel. You’re really -” 

“Irresistible?” The Dane finishes for him, a lopsided grin brightening up his face.

“A jerk, is what I was going for.”

“Jerk?” Dan scoffs, affecting a wounded look. “Fernando, you break my heart. I’m only thinking of your well being here.”

“I know what part of my well-being you’re concerned with.”

“Look,” Dan starts. He takes Fernando by the hand and pulls him back down on the couch, so that they’re sitting face to face. The Spaniard pulls his hand away and sits very straight, but complies, albeit not without hesitation. “You can’t tell me you didn’t feel it too, ok? I know you did. We were great, Fernando. I know you think everything I do is about Stevie, but it’s not. If anything, I don’t think you should be with him in the first place. He’s not good for you.”

“He’s actually a very good boyfriend.”

“I’m sure Xabi thinks so, too.”

Fernando closes his eyes for a second, tries not to get riled up again. “You don’t have to keep bringing this up all the time.”

“I think it’s important.”

“So that I’ll sleep with you again. Fuck, Daniel! What -”

“No, you stupid.” Daniel moves closer and cups Fernando’s face with both his hands, keeping him from glancing away. He knows he shouldn’t, but it’s impossible to avoid the sudden bubble of anxiety rising at the pit of his stomach. “I can’t get that night out of my head. I want you and I don’t think it’s fair that I can’t have you because of that moron.”

“That moron is my -”

“Yeah, whatever.” The tips of his thumbs are caressing Fernando’s skin ever so lightly and he’s finding it hard to keep his breath from faltering. “Tell me you’re not feeling it.”

“Fe-feeling what?” he stutters and then swallows down hard.

Daniel smiles wolfishly at him, all lewd intentions and white teeth like a shark. Fernando flushes hot all over. Suddenly there are lips pressing against his - gentle at first, and then more fiercely, a tongue forcing its way into his mouth. Both his hands grab Daniel’s arms with strength, and he means to push him away, but what he does is actually keep him steady there. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t try to stop him, he even kisses back.

That’s how long his resolve lasts.

“ _Joder_ ,” he murmurs once Dan pulls away, breathing hard. “This isn’t fair. When I say no… You should stick to it, not… test me.”

Dan lets out a small laughter, hands sliding down Fernando’s shoulders and arms and finding shelter on the curve of his waist. “But you love it.”

The realization is embarrassing, Fernando thinks, but when Daniel pins him down on the couch, Stevie becomes positively the last thing on his mind. 

He can’t blame the alcohol this time though; it’s all on him.

x-x-x

It’s way past midnight when he puts his key in the lock. The door makes a loud screeching sound as he pushes it open. “Fuck,” Fernando mutters under his breath. He never noticed their front door is so loud. The entire neighborhood must’ve woken up. Either that, or guilt is enhancing his senses. , which is likely the case here.

He hears a little noise coming from the living room, a light casting dancing spots of color on his walls, and he knows the TV’s on. Stevie is still up.

Fernando’s heart skips a beat. Maybe two. He feels his breath falter and his hands begin to shake and goddamnit… He was supposed to be out jogging. _Jogging_. In his naive assumption that drinks with Daniel would actually be nothing more than drinks, and that the Dane would accept and respect his decision to end whatever it is that they started in Madrid without a hint of protest, Fernando didn't stop to think that a _jog_ was perhaps not the best excuse in the world. Nobody _jogs_ for more than three hours. At least the nervousness is making him sweat like a pig, so it’ll look a little more convincing.

Tiptoeing to the living room, he sticks his head in and finds Stevie lying on the same couch where he left him. Fernando notices the slow but steady rhythm of his boyfriend’s chest and concludes he is sound asleep.

Sighing in relief, he enters the living room. Liverpool matches always mean little messes scattered about the place. He spots two empty bottles of beer on the floor next to Stevie’s hand; rests of popcorn all around the carpet, probably sent flying in the air in a burst of either rage or joy. Fernando hopes it's the latter, and not just because he is fond of Liverpool. Any help he can get to keep Stevie in a good mood is more than welcome.

He avoids looking directly at Stevie for a moment, but can’t help it for long. His boyfriend looks peaceful but not relaxed. He never does. That deep-in-thought expression never leaves his face, the permanent furrow on his brow only a little softer than usual. His mouth hangs slightly open, and Fernando feels his own lips quirking up in a tiny smile. 

The moment passes, though, and the smile only lasts for a second. The sense of bitter shame begins to mount again.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks himself, voice only above a whisper, as he bends over to pick up the bottles from the floor. He’s sure it all seemed like a very good idea at the moment, but suddenly he cannot think of one good reason why it would be even remotely justifiable to leave his boyfriend here, alone, to go over to Daniel’s house and… Well, do what he did. 

It’s like an entity took over his body and drove him to Daniel's. Fernando can’t even remember what he was thinking at the time. ‘ _Just a drink_ ’, right. It was never going to be just two friends having some beers. It was deliberate and premeditated, even if he kept trying to tell himself he had nothing but good intentions. 

And there’s no Xabi Alonso to be held accountable for it anymore, is there? It's one thing to have revenge sex in a hotel room of a different country while on tour, out of anger and frustration; it's a completely different one to do the same thing when he's back _home_.

He is such a cheater. Such a lying, dirty cheater. And it makes it so much worse that Stevie looks like a concerned angel when he’s asleep. It’s almost like he knows.

Just when Fernando stands up straight again, he locks eyes with a pair of blue sleepy ones, watching him from under blond lashes.

There’s a long second of quietness during which panic takes over and he nearly has to look away before he manages to talk. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

“Kind of,” Stevie replies in a very raspy voice, stifling a yawn.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats - and he really, _really_ means it. The mere act of waking him up is tearing him apart like he’s just stabbed Stevie on the back. Which, metaphorically speaking, he sort of did. “Do you need me to help you get to the room?”

“Nah.” The Englishman stretches himself out on the couch and then sits up, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Uhm…” Fernando swallows. “Just past midnight, I think.”

Gerrard looks up at him and it’s hard to tell whether he’s frowning or just really sleepy. Fernando decides he prefers to believe it’s the latter. “Did you just get back?”

The Spaniard ponders over all the million excuses he could give here, but none of them seem good enough, so instead he just nods his head.

“You were… jogging?”

“Yup,” Fernando answers, ignoring the hint of suspicion on Stevie’s question. “Been a while since I last exercised. Decided to take it slow.” He leaves it at that and waits for Stevie to say something, anything. But he doesn’t, just sits there and watches him and Fernando feels hot under his scrutiny. Unable to take it any longer and stinging with remorse, he looks away. “Well. I need a shower. Just gonna take these to the kitchen first, yeah?” he says, showing the bottles in his hand to Stevie.

With a grin that, he suspects, looks closer to a grimace than anything else, Fernando turns around and leaves before Stevie can muster enough wakefulness to ask anything else. He’s a horrible liar, terrible at making up excuses, even worse at meaning them.

And, right now, probably just a horrible, horrible human being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to keep the update to within the one month period! Yay for me. I have bold plans to update again in two weeks. Let's see how that goes.
> 
> As always, comments are very much appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed another update in less than two weeks! I get a star for that! :) 
> 
> As always, I need to remind you that this chapter hasn't been beta'ed! Please forgive me for any mistakes you find.
> 
> We're finally heading towards the part of the this story that I really like. I hope you enjoy it as well! Feedback is always very welcome!

Jamie sits with his legs crossed and a confused air about his face as he watches Stevie battling a pen. 

“Stupid pen…” his fellow Scouser mutters under his breath, teeth clenched as he slams the poor object against the hard wood of his home office’s desk and proceeds to scribble furiously on a piece of paper. “Jesus Christ, what’s the fucking problem with this pen?!” He tries again, once more to no success, almost ripping the paper apart.

Infuriated, Stevie throws the ballpoint pen flying across the room. It bounces off a wall and disappears from sight.

“Wow,” Jamie says, mildly astonished. “What did that pen ever do to you?”

“It’s not working.”

“I’m sure it didn’t do it on purpose.”

“What’s the fucking point of a pen if it doesn’t work?”

“Can’t help but notice you’re mouthier than usual today.”

“Fuck off, Carra. I’m trying to sign your stupid papers.”

“What’s up your arse?”

“Nothing’s up my arse,” Stevie half speaks, half grunts. He starts rummaging through his drawers with impatience in search of another pen. 

“Maybe something should, then.” Stevie glowers at him for a second before going back to his search. “Clearly the passive-aggressive treatment of that pen was only a reflex of some deeper issue.”

Grunting with a rage totally disproportionate to the situation, Stevie takes the stuff out of the drawer - a stack of papers, folders, pictures and other random things - and throws it all in the air, behind his back. “Jesus Christ! I can’t even find a fucking pen in this house!” Stevie slams the drawer back shut and finally looks at Jamie, who lifts him a pointed eyebrow in a ‘you were saying’ kind of way. There’s a vein popping out on Stevie’s forehead Carra thinks he’s never seen before. He’s about to collapse any second now and Jamie can’t tell whether he’s supposed to be calling an ambulance or the police.

Stevie leans back on his chair, swirls it around once and puffs out a really heavy, really hard gust of air.

“What did Fernando do to get you spitting fire like this?” Jamie asks. “Did he hide all your pens?” 

“What?”

“Did he slam your car? Mess up your soup? Were your shirts not ironed? Was he out with the girls too long?”

“What are you even talking about?”

Jamie sighs, his shoulders dropping tiredly. “I’m asking what is wrong with you and Fernando to get you in such a foul mood.”

“I’m not going to discuss my personal life with you.”

“The fuck you aren’t.” Carra uncrosses his legs and leans over the desk, pointing a very authoritative finger at his friend. “I am your manager and whatever happens in this house between you and my guitarist that could possibly be of threat to the future of The Red Kop is of my bloody concern.” Stevie opens his mouth to protest but Carra shuts him up by raising his finger higher - and talking louder, of course. “May I remind you that I was against this in the first place? I told you it was a bad idea to have a go at Fernando, didn’t I? We’ve been through this twice and it nearly ruined us - but no. _He’s got a great arse, Jamie, can’t help meself and me stupid cock._ ”

Stevie’s furious expression shifts into one of near shock. “Jesus, Carra.”

“ _It’s a great idea for us to live together, Jamie. We’ll live happily ever after, have fucking freckled babies_ and all that crap.” he continues. 

“I never said anything about babies.”

“Well, fuck.”

A long moment of silence follows as Stevie looks honestly shell-shocked. After what feels like hours, he blinks his eyes twice, and then speaks in a much calmer tone. “It’s not Fernando.”

Carra frowns. “It isn’t?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Not entirely.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“Xabi is in town.”

 _Shit_ , Jamie thinks. Here he was, thinking marital issues with Fernando were his worst nightmare. That was actually being optimistic. Xabi fucking Alonso is so, so much worse. It just had to be that son of a bitch, the gift from hell that just keeps on giving.

Carra rolls his eyes, shakes his head and leans back against his chair. “For fuck’s sake.”

“He arrived yesterday.”

“Don’t tell me you picked him up at the airport and gave him a tour around the city.”

“No, he… Called me. Afterwards.”

“Well, you fucking knobhead. Congratulations.”

“How is this my fault? I didn’t ask him to come!” 

“Geez, I don’t know, maybe he got the wrong idea when you started _fucking him again_!” The Scouser stresses the last few words by nearly shouting them on Stevie’s face. 

A flicker of sheer terror crosses his friend’s features; his skin turns pale white as his eyes look like they’re about to jump off of his face. “What?” the boy asks, horror shaking up his voice.

“Don’t look so surprised.” 

“How do you know about that?” 

“You weren’t exactly being discreet, were you? You ran off to buy _bagels_ in the middle of the afternoon and didn’t return until the wee hours of the night. _Bagels_ , Stevie, seriously?”

“I -” Stevie starts, stops, swallows down. “I really did go to the coffee shop and had a bagel.”

“Did it taste nice off Xabi’s cock?”

“Seriously, you…” Stevie’s face crumples up in a grimace. “You shouldn’t make that kind of comment.”

“It’s all your fault I talk like that now. My grandpa would be fucking disgraced if he heard me right now.”

“Who else knows?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t -“

“You want to know if your boyfriend knows you were cheating on him? I don’t have a clue. I didn’t say anything to anyone, obviously. Although maybe I should’ve said a thing or two to you. I was trying to be comprehensive and spare you from the lecture because you were obviously struggling, but it was just dumb, Stevie. Really.”

“It’s a blessing to have such an encouraging friend like yourself, Carra. Honest to God,” Stevie says in pure annoyance.

“You don’t honestly expect me to encourage _that_ , do you?” He takes a deep breath, rubbing his forehead, torn between not wanting to hear anything about Xabi ever again and realizing that he needs to know if he wants to be prepared for the worst, which, in this case, is the most likely outcome to be expected. It's not technically on his job description, to be babysitting 30-year-old musicians and meddling on who they sleep with, but fucking the band up due to a complete lack of sense when it comes to sex has become so frequent that he might as well just start charging extra for that. “So," he finally asks, resigned. "What happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“He called you, what happened then?”

“Nothing.” Stevie shrugs.

“Nothing? He didn’t come over, you didn’t meet him somewhere?”

“No. I told him to stay away from me.”

“And you’re that bothered like there’s a fucking hamster playing Pac-Man in your bloody intestines? For nothing?”

“He’s here, Carra! He’s stalking me! Of course I’m bothered! I didn’t go looking for him! In fact, I ran away from him! I tried my best not to stay face to face with that bastard, and now he’s here!” Stevie speaks rapidly, gesticulating ferociously with his hands in the air.

Carra inhales deeply, gets closer to the desk again, leaning over it. He can feel it in his guts this is going to end badly. 

“Look, Stevie,” he puts on his best best-friend voice, which is arguably still not exactly friendly; he’s making an effort to be understanding, though, for the band's sake. What he really wants to do is shake Stevie's head until he snaps out of it, but he'll save that as a last resort measure, in case talking sense turns out to be a waste of time. Considering everything Xabi's done to them - and to Stevie in particular - he shouldn't even have to remind him of how wrong he is to be falling for the same crap all over again. 

“Xabi’s an arse, ok?" Jamie continues, as calmly as he possibly can. "He walked out on us when we needed him the most. He left your precious little heart in pieces. He’s trouble, Stevie, so listen to what this old, straight mate of yours has to say, yeah? Don’t go crawling back to him.” Carra punctuates every word by tapping his finger on the wood. “Let Xabi do whatever Xabi has to do, but stay away from him.”

The memories of the hellish months following Xabi’s decision to drop out of The Red Kop are as vivid as yesterday’s lunch in Jamie’s mind, and it is a mystery why it doesn't seem to be the same for Stevie. Daniel had been in rehab for a couple of months, he’d lost Finns - who had become more of a nuisance than help by the end, but still - they were trying to work on some new stuff to occupy their minds during the Dane’s absence and dear Alonso, always impeccable with his timing, picked that as the perfect moment to announce he didn’t want to have anything to do with the band anymore. As if they didn’t already have enough problems for one fucking life time.

Jamie clearly remembers that, for about ten seconds there, he gave deep consideration to the idea of jumping from the top of the Liver Bird Building. But he thought of his friend, his best mate of years, who, in addition to all of this, had also just been dumped, and gave up. Stevie would need him alive more than ever.

Carra got to sit at the stands and watch as Stevie became angry, then depressive, then just a righteous prick, an honest rival to Daniel at his worst. They all nearly killed each other and The Red Kop was finished about twenty times in three weeks. All their contracts, sponsorships and future gigs were jeopardized in the process. It was a test to his abilities and patience and the reason why he considers himself one of the best fucking managers out there, thank you very much. Not many people would've managed to pull that one off.

And it is precisely because he still remembers it all that Jamie becomes terrified of the uncertainty he sees in Stevie’s face.

“Don’t even think about it, Gerrard,” he admonishes. 

“I just…” he starts, and Jamie knows what’s coming. “I just want to understand.”

“He’s an arse, that’s all there is to understand about Xabi,” he insists. 

“Why is he back now? Why did he decide to jump out of whatever hole in hell he ran to, and why now?”

“What difference does it make? It was a coincidence or… or…. Or something. It doesn’t matter!”

“It matters to me!”

“Stevie… Please. Listen to me, ok? There is no way in this universe that this is going to end well. You have a lovely boyfriend, don’t do this to him.”

The minute he mentions Fernando, Stevie’s eyes cloud and he shifts awkwardly in his chair. “I think my lovely boyfriend is seeing someone else.”

“What?” Well, that just wraps it all up, doesn't it?

“I don’t know… He’s been… Strange.”

“Don’t tell me -”

“I think he’s been shagging Daniel.”

There it is. This is how The Red Kop ends.

“Jesus.” Carra presses his fingers against his temple. His head is starting to hurt. “I knew I should’ve hired a straight guitarist. I knew it! I think I have a migraine now.”

“Stop the drama, Carra.”

“You think this is drama because you don’t know how much of a pain in my arse you lot can be! You just have to look pretty, sing a couple of songs and try to shag the living hell out of each other! I’m the one who has to keep you in line! Do you have any idea how hard that is? I’m gonna sue the living daylight out of all of you if you ruin this again! We’re on the talks of an American tour, Stevie. Do you know what that means?”

“Hamburgers and _soccer_?”

“No, you shitehead. It means you’ll have to spend months looking at each other’s faces every single day, and act like you actually give a shit! Can you imagine how it’ll be like if you and Nando - and, and, and _freaking Daniel_! God, I don’t even want to think about it. So you better not screw this up before it even starts or I’ll rip the holes out of your sorry arses! I’ve been working way too hard to put this deal together.”

Feeling his head aching in little waves of pain, Carragher stands up. “Find a pen and be a dear to sign these papers and drop them off at my place, will you? I’m too old for this shit, my head is going to explode.”

“Now you want me to be a dear.”

“You need to be told off, Stevie. You know I love you, but Jesus Christ. I don’t know what the hell you have in that space between your bloody ears sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Tell Nando I said hi.”

“Want me to send the message do Daniel too?”

“Oh, shut up, Gerrard.”

Stevie quiets down, sinks further in his chair and looks down at his own hands, thoughtful. Carra thinks he’s so heartbreakingly desolate right then that it’s actually touching, even if he’s only got himself to blame for it. The older man moves over to his friend and places a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Sometimes you’re worse than my boy, did you know that?”

Stevie gives him a short little grin, tired and contaminated by the turmoil in his head.

“I know you hate me when I talk to you like that, but -”

“I know you mean well, Carra. You’re just too loud to actually sound like it.”

He rolls his eyes, pats Stevie on the head. “I love Nando,” he says, and Stevie looks up at him. He’s over 30 already, but sometimes he still seems so young. “He’s a wonderful kid, and he’s good for you. He’s actually my favorite right now.”

“I thought I was supposed to be your favorite.”

“You’re my best friend, Gerrard, but let’s be honest. He’s the best one out of all of us. Don’t fuck this up. Start thinking with your brain instead of your cock.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Carra…” Stevie says, shaking his head and looking away from him. “Stop talking like this. It’ll give me nightmares.”

“Yeah, whatever, queer boy. I have to go before my head explodes. _Behave_ , yeah? I’ll see myself out.”

Right before he leaves the room, he thinks he hears Stevie replying, really low, under his breath and probably not meaning to be heard. It sounds a lot like ‘Not sure I can’, but Carra decides to pretend he didn’t get it. So he doesn’t ask, just goes away, and prays to heavens Xabi Alonso isn’t back in town to finish what he started when he left.

x-x-x

The rain that falls almost constantly over Merseyside makes Liverpool a city in shades of grey, in Xabi’s opinion. While Madrid seems to live under a pale light that paints the entire place in warm, pastel tones, Liverpool hides behind a curtain of water drops. 

Xabi is neither grey, nor yellow. He feels at ease in Liverpool, but is never completely comfortable. Somehow, Madrid feels more like home. Even if it’s not his birthplace either.

The view of the Albert Dock in a quiet morning, with the sun battling its way through dark clouds, is still one of his favorites, though. 

He never really understood how Stevie and Carra preferred to live far away from the city center. Locals never fully appreciate what they have. Xabi spent the better part of his income in rent back then, but he did it with pleasure, living a short walk away from the river.

His trip to his old home isn’t going exactly as he planned so far, not that he had thought it through anyway. Xabi prides himself in being a methodical man; each and every step he takes is studied to exhaustion, every risk is calculated. This time, however, he bought a plane ticket to England acting on nothing more than a whim. And look where intuition got him: cold and alone, with way too much time in his hands to think. 

Thinking while in Liverpool is never a good idea. Too many memories, a lot of regrets. Maybe not a lot. Actually, it's more like just one - an impossibly huge one that answers by the name of Steven Gerrard.

He reckons it could be worse, though.

Liverpool wouldn’t be his vacation destination of choice, probably, for an infinite number of reasons. But he’s quite enjoying the opportunity to see England again, walk around the streets he knows so well but hasn’t visited in years. Liverpool grows, becomes more modern, but it never changes. It’s one of the things he loves about this place; the city has its very own personality, a strong character that’s been forged in its industrial, hard-working past, and rebounds off the old and the new brick walls all around, reflecting on the population.

Xabi likes to think that a little bit of that Liverpudlian pride has rubbed off on him.

As the early bird that he is, Xabi decides to go down to a café by the docks to grab something to eat and read the newspaper. He used to do this almost every morning, before. Not everything about old habits is terrible, after all. He’s half-way through the paper when someone blocks his view of the street by taking the seat right in front of him.

Someone who looks like he hasn’t had three straight hours of sleep in a week.

“Uhm,” Xabi starts, putting the paper down. “Good morning, Steven.”

Steven doesn’t say anything. Xabi can feel his legs shaking rapidly under the table, piercing blue eyes trained on his own, creases of sheer determination all the way up to his hairline. 

“To what do I owe the honor of your company?” Xabi lifts his coffee mug from the table. “Last time I heard from you, you were pretty straightforward about not wanting to see me again. ‘Stay out of my way’, was it?” he asks from behind the hem of his mug, a slight hint of irony on his voice.

“I’m waiting for my coffee,” Stevie replies, coldly.

“You came all the way over here just to buy coffee?”

“Yes.”

“It must be a coincidence that this happens to be my favorite coffee place in Liverpool, then.”

“I like the coffee here.”

“Right.” Xabi nods. “Do you have a particular preference for this table as well?”

“What are you doing, Xabi?” Stevie asks, voice pitched low and more than a little shaky around the edges.

“Well. I was having a cappuccino and keeping up with the news in England, I guess. How about you?”

“Don’t play daft with me, Xabier.”

“ _Xabier_ ,” he repeats, hiding his face behind the mug once more as to not make his amused smirk so obvious. “You must be pretty pissed. I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were being serious.”

“Why are you here?” Stevie is all annoyance now. “In Liverpool. Stalking me.”

“Stalking you?” Xabi asks, brow all furrowed in feigned confusion. “I’m visiting, Steven. Yes, I was hoping to meet you, I made no mystery of that, but I know when I’m not wanted. You told me to stay away and I did. I might have my obsessions, but I’m no harasser. Then _you_ walk into the one place you could count on finding me in the entire city and makes yourself comfortable on my table without so much as a hello. So let’s start again, shall we? Why are _you_ stalking _me_?” 

He leans back against his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and watches as something changes in Stevie’s features with a calmingly interested expression. His legs stop shaking, the sharpness on the wrinkles around his eyes and the hint of distaste turning down the corner of his lips all disappear, softening into something less inflamed. More vulnerable.

It’s almost like he’s suddenly realizing that there is something else other than irritation and a sense of victimization behind his decision to leave beautiful Fernando asleep in their love nest to chase down an ex-boyfriend at a café. All of this before 9 in the morning. Xabi is aware of all this, of course. He just wants to see Steven admitting it to himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Stevie says. “You should’ve never come here.”

“I have to agree, actually. Perhaps it wasn’t one of the wisest things I’ve ever done. But I’m here now. So what?” he shrugs. “All you had to do was ignore me.”

“I can’t” he blurts out suddenly, words coming out probably out of their own will, judging by how Stevie can’t hold his gaze. “I can’t,” he says again, more to himself than to Xabi. “I hate this, but I can’t. And what makes me restless is that I can’t figure out why.” Stevie raises his eyes back at him. He seems almost hurt by this incomprehension.

“I told you already. You just didn’t believe me.”

He’s thoughtful for a spell, recalling their conversations, and then states a decisive, “You don’t miss me.”

“See? Things would be a lot easier for you to understand if you would only listen.” Xabi takes another sip of his coffee, keeping his cool intact, as though this whole conversation is ordinary. This entire situation completely betrays his usual poise. But he’ll be damned if he’ll let it show. 

It could, however, be a lot simpler than it is, if Steven would only stop trying to rationalize things that are bereft of reason. Passion, attraction, obsession, yearning, desire. Love. Those are all just pretty words. What lies behind all this is a mystery, which is exactly why it moves people so much. It's the things that you can't control that get out of your mind and doing things that you' never do otherwise - like jumping on an airplane just because you suddenly _had_ to see someone you spent two years away from. The more Stevie questions his motivation, the more Xabi questions himself. And Xabi’s not used to questioning himself, not used to not knowing what he wants.

Right now, he’s not even sure what he’s doing in Liverpool and although he’s a lot better at keeping his true feelings to himself than Steven’s ever been, it’s eating him away inside. 

With a long sigh, Xabi continues. “Honestly, I don’t know what I have to do for you to believe me. I left my business completely unattended in Madrid to come here, and just saying it out loud gives me goosebumps. What else do you want?”

“You didn’t so much as send me a post card for two whole years. I phoned you, I sent you e-mails, you never cared.”

“I did care. I just couldn’t come up with an argument against ‘You’re a heartless son of a bitch and I hope you die a very slow death’. I think I’ve read this e-mail well over a hundred times. I still do, when I’m feeling particularly down. Reminds me that it can always be worse.”

“I was… drunk, when I wrote that,” he says sheepishly, turning his face away.

Xabi grins shortly. “I figured. But you meant every word.”

When Stevie falls quiet, studying the sachets of sugar in the middle of the table, Xabi decides it’s his turn to offer some kind of aid to the Englishman’s troubles. He looks absolutely desolate, so much that it almost causes Xabi to feel sorry for being the reason for all this. _Almost_ , but not quite. “I was trying to give you time,” he says. “I thought you needed. And so did I. There was no way we would ever get a clean cut. Prolonging it would only make it worse,” he explains, voice full of strained warmth.

Steven watches him with an undisguised expression of hurt. “What makes you think I’m done with having time?”

“Well…” Xabi flickers his eyes away from him for a moment, to the soft rain starting to fall outside as the sun finally loses the battle to the clouds, as it happens more often than not in Liverpool. “You showed up, didn’t you?”

“I’m not sure I should’ve.”

“That’s completely beside the point.”

Silence takes over once again. It’s weird, Xabi thinks, how this relationship ended, to all effects, almost two and a half years before but still has more wrinkles and hitches than any other he’s ever experienced. The romantics would probably call Stevie “the one”, maybe. Someone you can’t wash away from your skin no matter how hard you try. But Xabi’s never been keen on romance.

One thing is definitely true, though; he cares for Stevie in a way he’s never cared for anyone else. But whether this is properly love or some deep-rooted affection made complicated by an impossible physical attraction, that he doesn’t know. 

But he’s here now. So he reckons it doesn’t make a difference anyway.

“How’s Nando?” he asks, when the absence of conversation becomes too much even for him. It becomes immediately evident it was the wrong question when Stevie fixes him with a glare that threatens of near violence, like he’s said something terribly offensive.

Well, he did mean it as an incitement, but it wasn’t supposed to be mean. Just… inappropriate. Stevie just seems to be always expecting the worst from him these days.

He can't exactly blame him, though. Sometimes we do get to be judged by our one-offs, Xabi thinks.

“You don’t get to call him Nando.”

“Pardon my indiscretion. How’s _Torres_? Is that better?”

“I should just start discussing my personal life with you now, should I?”

“I thought that’s exactly what we’ve been doing since you sat there.”

Stevie exhales wearily. “We’re… fine.” 

Xabi flickers him an eyebrow. “ _We_? I asked how is _he_ doing.” he says. “Do I sense hesitation?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh. So there _is_ trouble in paradise.” He’s only vaguely aware he shouldn’t been sounding as pleased by the revelation as he is. It’s disrespectful. Or something.

“I’m not discussing my relationship with you.”

“All right,” he agrees. “Fair enough. But I have to ask, though - I reckon you have a boyfriend with whom you live with, who’s probably still sound asleep right now, and you did tell me, not two days ago, to stay away from you, so… What are _you_ doing here, Stevie?” 

“I…” Stevie tries to begin, stops, stares at him and finally, _finally_ , looks free of bitterness and resentment - he looks sincere. And perhaps a bit scared as well. “I don’t know.”

Xabi gives him a smile that is honest and warm, nothing like the half-grins he got so used to. 

“That’s good enough for me,” he says. “Would you like to have coffee with me?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please excuse any mistakes you find (this chapter has not been beta'ed, same as all the other ones!). Feeback is very, very much appreciated! I love knowing what guys are thinking of the story.

That irritating little noise of someone breathing too hard on the phone is immediately accompanied by Spanish gibberish he doesn't understand the first thing of.

“What?” he asks, staring at the display window of a shop down at Liverpool One.

“ _Your answer is still no, Daniel_ ,” Fernando replies, impatiently. Dan’s pretty sure that’s not what he said in Spanish. “ _Do they not teach you the meaning of that word in Denmark? No._ ”

“They do, but they also teach us to be perseverant.” He starts walking again. 

“ _Not this time, it won't work._ ”

“Next time, then?”

“ _I -_ ” Fernando starts to speak in a rather exasperated manner, but stops and takes another breath. “ _You know what? Whatever. I’m not even arguing with you anymore._ ”

Daniel grins. The way he sees it, there are two clear options here: he can either push his luck some more and see what he can fish out of it, or he can play it cool and accept that he’ll be spending the night alone.

The first option, however hinting at a possible happy ending, can also generate bigger damages in case it falls off. The second is just playing safe. Daniel is anything but safe. Life is all about taking risks. However, thinking on the long run, it is probably best not to try too hard. Fernando still has issues he needs to come to terms with; Daniel should probably give him some time off to ponder, weight options, meditate, take some yoga classes, whatever it is that responsible people do these days.

“All right, Nando,” he says. “I accept your no for an answer. I don’t like it, but I’ll respect it.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Fernando replies, surly.

“Have a good evening, yeah?”

“ _I will._ ”

“Tell Stevie I said hi.”

“ _Fuck you._ ” Fernando hangs up.

Daniel can't help teasing.

This is quite possibly problematic, he thinks. This newly acquired taste for Fernando. It’s not a _need_ yet, but it’s dancing dangerously on that border. He’s enjoying this way too much for his own good. And Daniel is a horrible sharer. Tonight, he loses to the legitimate, however scumbaggy, part of the story. The Spaniard planned dinner or something for the two of them. This means he’s still considering putting things right with his boyfriend and leaving their fling behind. 

And then what? Where would that leave him? Horny, needy and… clingy. Damn. That’s so out of character for Daniel Agger, he feels sick. He cracks jokes and he teases Fernando about Stevie, but the truth is, if the Spaniard really does decide to stick to his boyfriend, Daniel won't be happy at all. 

That’s when his phone, still in his hand, starts vibrating. Daniel smirks. _Oh, Fernando…_

“Changed your mind already?” he asks, cheekiness all over. But the Spaniard doesn’t say anything. “Fernando?” No answer.

He finally checks the phone screen - it’s a private number. Not Fernando, then. “Hello?” he asks again, his grin morphing into a frown. “Who is this?” There is definitely someone on the line, he can hear the person breathing on the other side. “I can hear you. Who is this?”

For a moment there he almost feels that blink-of-an-eye-long pause before someone says something, but then there’s a click and the person hangs up. 

x-x-x

There’s a soft drizzle falling outside, in the dying hours of the afternoon. It blurs everything out a little bit, revolves the city in a translucent cloak. From the balcony, he can see the river, the margins on the other side completely obscured by the fog-like rain. It almost looks like he’s staring out into the ocean. The sharp, cold wind against his face announces the nightfall, but he never wavers. Just stays still, watching.

This feels strange to Stevie. This sight of his hometown. He’s not used to looking at Liverpool from above. It feels foreign to see the city sparkling off in the distance. He’s used to being down there, walking about those streets. From up here, he can’t see anything other than roofs and shadows. 

Somehow, this sentiment reflects on how he feels in general these days. Like he’s standing on top of a hill, watching as his life goes on about without him in a completely unexpected fashion, as fate takes the wheel and leads him to a very ironic and possibly masochistic turn; he does nothing but stand still and move along, like a pawn on a chess board, just waiting to be crushed under the strain. It's a near out-of-body experience, doing things and saying things and all the while feeling as though he's not in control of any of it, his conscience dormant in some part of his brain as he ruins everything by acting like a dick.

It seems fitting that this is Xabi is right now, that this is how he sees the city: blurred, distant and cold. It’s always been like that to him. Liverpool is just another place, foreign like all the others. To Stevie, Liverpool is home. Always will be. 

He feels a vibration against his thigh and blinks out of his reverie. Stevie fishes out his phone from his pocket.

A sigh escapes his lips before he answers.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound cheerful, or at least normal, while in reality he’s just worn out - both physically and mentally.

“ _Hi, there_ ,” Fernando says on the other end. “ _Where are you?_ ” His accent always sounds thicker than normal through the phone. Usually Stevie finds that endearing. Right now, it's sort of heartbreaking.

“Jamie’s,” he says, without hesitation. “He asked me to sign some papers.”

“ _Oh. Tell him I said hi._ ”

“Will do.”

“ _So, uhm,_ ” Fernando begins, and makes a little nervous pause. “ _I was thinking… Do you have plans for tonight?_ ”

Stevie frowns. “Ahm… No. I don’t think so. Why?”

“ _Well, I have printed recipes from the internet and bought stuff that I don’t think we’ve ever had in our fridge before. So I was thinking about maybe cooking us dinner. It’s been a while since we last sat down to have a proper meal together._ ”

“You’re going to cook dinner?” he asks, in disbelief. Fernando’s never cooked anything in his life that’s ever turned out edible. Stevie’s a bit of a disgrace in the kitchen, but he doesn’t think anyone could ever beat Fernando on that department. Despite that, he still finds himself smiling.

“ _Yeah,_ ” Fernando says, defiantly. “ _I have recipes._ ”

“Is that even safe?”

“ _I can follow steps. I’m not that useless._ ”

“Remember what happened to that egg?”

There’s a loud noise on the line when, presumably, Fernando exhales in annoyance - the way he always does when he’s being teased and doesn’t know how to answer. Stevie can picture perfectly his nostrils flaring and his lips pursing into that trademark bitchface of his. “ _I forgot that I’d put that egg to cook. You can’t judge me by my lowest._ ”

Stevie lets out a short laugh. “All right, fair enough. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“ _Great!_ ” The genuine excitement on his boyfriend’s tone sends a sharp pang through Stevie’s heart, like a sadness. He can visualize Fernando beaming, looking younger than he actually is with all those freckles, crinkles on the corner of his eyes. 

He can’t keep this little act going on for much longer. 

"Even if it's the last thing I do," he adds.

Fernando grunts. “ _Make sure to leave that pessimism outside when you come. I want you to have an open mind._ ”

“What is it that you’re going to cook, exactly?”

“ _It’s a surprise._ ”

“Remember to check on it so it won’t -”

“ _Shut up and don’t be late._ ”

“Ok,” he nods once in affirmation even though Fernando can’t see it. “Bye.”

“ _Bye!_ ”

Stevie takes a moment to react after he hears the click on the other side.

It’s hard to brush away the feeling that all they do these days is try to save their relationship without actually admitting that they are in need of saving. There exists between them an awkwardness that neither seems able to transcend, but both are more than willing to pretend isn’t there.

Stevie would still rather not think about Fernando’s motivations, though. It only adds a second layer of complications over something that is already sufficiently chaotic. Stevie worries that it might get beyond the point of no return then.

“Dinner plans?”

He turns around to find Xabi leaning against the balcony glass door of his hotel room, arms crossed, wearing a dark blue robe that makes a beautiful contrast with his ginger beard.

He still doesn’t like that beard. It is the trademark of this new Xabi who isn’t his anymore but keeps pulling him into his web and jeopardizing the healthy and stable relationship he managed to build with Fernando. Or at least that’s how he’s choosing to look at things right now, strategically discarding his own generous portion of fault in the rendezvous as to not start crying at his pathetic lack of self-respect.

It’s hard to understand how he can be so madly drawn to two people at the same time that couldn’t be any more different from one another if they tried, but it also explains the utterly helpless mess that is his head right now.

“Yeah,” he says simply, putting away his phone.

“Pity. Was about to ask you out.”

Stevie looks at him, notices the way Xabi seems relaxed and totally at ease and thinks that that man hasn’t got a single care in his life. He faces away from the Spaniard, gazing back out, at the foreign Liverpool, and doesn’t say anything. 

Xabi joins him in a companionable silence, while Stevie quietly considers whether it’s even possible for him to be in love with two men at the same time, or if there’s something being terribly misunderstood here.

He can’t seem to let go of Xabi, but refuses to accept losing Fernando. The idea of betraying him kills Stevie just as much as the thought of watching him leave, and the coexistence of such incoherent feelings is sending his brain into meltdown.

Regardless of how much thinking he puts into it, there doesn’t seem to exist a way to measure his feelings and weight what is more important. He wants Xabi’s quiet observations and Fernando’s childish excitement; he wants Xabi’s plans and Fernando’s dreams; he wants Xabi’s carefully straightened-out lines and Fernando’s bright, enthusiastic mess. 

Stevie is selfish and wants them both, but right now it doesn’t seem like he’s in place to claim either; Xabi doesn’t deserve him and he doesn’t deserve Fernando.

“I’m a horrible person,” he says, to no one in particular, as a conclusion to his thoughts. 

“You’re only human, Steven,” Xabi replies, that tune of warm nonchalance always there. It’s his way of approaching life; nothing’s so important that it should cost Xabi Alonso’s poise. “You shouldn’t blame yourself too much.”

He turns his face back to the Spaniard. “Who should I blame then? You?”

“Have you ever considered that maybe there’s just no one to be blamed?”

“There’s always someone to be blamed.”

Xabi walks up to him, touches his chin with his index finger and gently makes him lift his head to meet his eyes again; piercing chocolate brown, slightly lighter than Fernando’s. And Stevie can’t seem to stop making comparisons. “You can’t blame yourself for something that is not under your control. You don’t get to choose things like this.”

“I don’t even know what these _things_ are.” He pauses as Xabi takes his hand away. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“The problem is that you think too much.”

“It’s easy for you to say. You owe nothing to no one.”

Xabi looks thoughtful for a moment, and then he says, “What is done is done, Steven, you can’t change it. I know you well enough to know you’re never going to be happy about this. You care too much, and that’s admirable, really. But caring won’t make anything different. You should just stop thinking, stop denying, and accept that this - me, this hotel room, this moment, right here - this is what you want.”

“What I want is to stop cheating on my boyfriend.”

“You’ve tried that. It didn’t work out. What do you think that says?”

“It says I’m a fucking arsehole, is what it says.”

Xabi laughs a hollow laugh and takes a step closer to him, put his arms on Stevie’s shoulder, lets his hand glide up his skin to rest on both sides of his neck. “Does this feel wrong to you?”

Stevie takes a deep, nearly shuddering breath. “No,” he says as a sense of defeat takes over him. “And that’s the problem. It should.”

“Just stop. Blaming. Yourself,” Xabis says, punctuating each word for emphasis, and presses his lips against Stevie's. Gerrard’s first thought is that he should push him away - but after everything he’s done already, after Madrid and today… What’s the point?

It’s almost as though fate has it in its heart to make his life miserable. First it takes Xabi away; then it spits him back, but with a catch. 

“Come on,” Xabi says, taking his hand and pulling him back inside. “It’s getting too cold outside. We still have a little time before you have to leave.”

It’s only too easy. Fernando will be waiting for him at home with dinner, but he’ll savor his time with Xabi. He takes a deep breath, like a man about to walk off a cliff, and goes with the Spaniard.

x-x-x

_**Three years and two months before…** _

When Stevie blinks out of sleep and the world finally comes into focus, his alarm clock informs him it’s 7.45pm. It was an exhausting day: early morning at the recording studio, late lunch with the producers, never-ending discussions about things he couldn’t care less about, and then Xabi. 

Xabi had arguably been the most wearing - and pleasurable - part of his day. Sometimes Stevie thinks that what that Spaniard really gets off on is establishing records on how hard he can make Stevie come. Sex with him always feels like being only one step away from glory.

Stevie stretches out on the bed, yawns, feels his limbs still lightly sore in the best kind of way. There’s a little sound coming from outside the bedroom; in this tiny flat with paper-thin walls, it’s impossible not to notice when life is going on about in other rooms. Not that he minds it, though; Stevie hardly goes to sleep alone, but almost never wakes up with company. These little sounds tell him he’s not by himself. Yet.

He searches the floor for his haphazardly discarded boxers and puts it on. Looking around for the source of activity, he finds it in his kitchen, standing close to the stove, watching a kettle as the water begins to boil.

Stevie leans against the doorway and smiles in spite of himself. “That’s unusual,” he says. 

Xabi looks a little surprised, but never startled. He grins back at him, his hair still tousled and messy. “Hey,” he says. “Did you have a good nap?”

“Yes. Still tired, though. You’re going to kill me one of these days.”

His lips quirk into a self-satisfied smirk as he turns back to his kettle. “You are very welcome.” Xabi takes the kettle off the stove and pours the steaming water into a mug. “Would you like some tea?”

Stevie takes a second to fully appreciate the moment. A scruffy-haired Xabi Alonso, wearing nothing but an old pair of jeans that hangs low on his waist bones, making tea in his kitchen. The easy domesticity of the scene knocks the air out of Stevie’s lungs a little bit.

“Stevie?” Xabi asks again, raising his eyebrows at him when he takes too long to reply. “Tea?”

“Sure,” he says, grinning. “You know…” Stevie starts and tries to sound casual, like the idea’s just occurred to him, like he hasn’t been munching over the thought for weeks. Months even. “I could get used to this.”

“To tea?” Xabi says, opening the cupboard to get another mug. “Don’t you English people have it every day?”

“I mean to you. Making tea. Here.”

“I can make you all the tea you want.” Xabi pours the water in the second mug. “Milk?”

“No, thank you.” 

The Spaniard offers him one mug with an easy smile. “There you go,” he says.

Stevie takes it from him, making sure his fingers brush against his boyfriend’s in the process. The curve on his lips is strained, nervous; Xabi, always the observer, probably notices the sudden anxiety and just waits for him to get it out. Stevie, unlike his boyfriend, is not the type to keep his troubles to himself; he means to, but it usually doesn’t work. 

“Don’t you think… that it makes sense that we… That we, you know… That you stay here - more, I mean. I know you spend a lot of time here already, and that’s exactly why I’m saying this. We should -”

Xabi cuts him off with a sharp sigh, staring down at his mug with a tired air about his features. 

Stevie blinks at him. “What?”

“I know where this is going.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” Xabi calmly sips from his tea. “And I believe you know the answer. We’ve talked about this.”

“I know, but - It wasn’t a _talk_ , it was just… Putting the idea out there. And it was a while ago. Now it’s… It’s different.”

“How so?”

“Well, it’s - We’re -” he stutters, finding it incredibly hard to pick the right words just then. “We’re together, Xabi.”

“Yes. And I don’t see why we need to live together as well for that to make any more sense. We’re fine the way we are, aren’t we?”

“Well, yes. But -”

“Then don’t try to change it, Stevie. It’s very hard to find something like what we have. There’s no need to get your tool boxes out if there’s nothing to be fixed.” 

Stevie is suddenly torn; he can’t tell whether he is more stunned or sad. The way Xabi says things with such a dismissive ease is frightening. Stevie endeavored to harden himself to his indifference; Xabi is like that about pretty much everything. But remarks like this still cause as much pain as getting a cannon ball shot to the back of his skull. 

The tune of disregard in the manner he shrugs his shoulders and drinks from his tea is obvious. Maybe Stevie is still too old-fashioned, somehow, if there’s any way a gay singer in a rock band can be old-fashioned, but he’s never asked anyone to move in with him ever in his life. He’s never even properly considered it without being totally terrified and maybe a bit irked by the mere thought. This is an important moment for him. But to Xabi it seems to be just every-day annoyance.

Stevie’s never felt as comfortable with anyone in his life the way he feels with Xabi. And yet he can’t help but feel like he’s always skipping behind to catch up. As though there’s always some kind of subtext he’s not picking up on; Xabi speaks in the details and he fails to completely understand.

“You pay a fortune on your rent, Xabi,” he tries again. If the ‘we-are-in-love-therefore-we-should-live-together’ card doesn’t work with him, then maybe the practical one will. Xabi’s all about being practical. “It doesn’t make sense for you to spend so much if you end up staying here most of the time.”

Xabi takes another sip from his tea, buying time. “I like my flat, Stevie,” he says, and puts the mug down on the kitchen counter. “It’s very well invested money.”

“Have you considered what you could do with that money if you didn’t have to spend it all on rent?”

“See, that’s the kind of thing that doesn’t make any sense to me. I make money _to_ pay for my flat. That’s the purpose. If there was anything else I’d rather be doing with that money, I wouldn’t be spending it.”

“But -”

“Stevie, listen,” Xabi interrupts him. He takes the mug from his hands - and Stevie hadn’t even noticed he was holding it so tightly his palms were starting to burn. With a light frown between his eyebrows, the Spaniard looks at the bright red spot on his hand, tracing a finger lightly over his palm. “I like to have my own space. It’s my thing. I know you think I spend too much time in here, but I don’t, really. We just happen to spend too much time together, whether it’s here, at my place or working. But I like to think that at the end of the day I get to go to my own home, if I want to. I enjoy silence sometimes. And to be honest, I think it’s a lot healthier this way - for us, I mean. I can’t tell you how many terrible stories I’ve heard from people who loved each other but ended up discovering that all the tiny little differences they had, and that used to be just adorable before, turned out to be devastating once they moved in together.”

“What about all the people who are still together living under the same roof for 20 years? People are different, Xabi.”

“Yes.” He lets go of his hand. “But I’m one of those who would screw up a relationship in record time. We’re too good for that, Steven. I like us.”

“So. What then? We’re just going to be like this forever? Five years from now, ten, and we’re still going to be living in different houses?”

The look Xabi gives him then borders on condescending. “Five years is a long time.”

“Not that long.”

“Long enough that you shouldn’t be thinking about it now, when we are having tea after a thoroughly gratifying day. You think too much. That’s not good for you.”

“Or maybe it’s you who doesn’t think enough.”

His boyfriend smiles then, like everything is all so amusing. Stevie feels small under Xabi’s gaze, naked in a manner that has nothing to do with his state of undress. It’s almost like Xabi can see through him, can read his soul and taste the panic inside of him. If Stevie didn’t know better, he’d think Xabi actually enjoys it, like it makes him powerful to know the turmoil he can provoke in someone else. 

“Maybe,” Xabi agrees with a nod. “But I prefer to believe that I think about the right things, at the right times.” He takes a breath and comes closer to him, puts his hands on Stevie’s shoulders and lets them slide down, stopping on the small of his back. He places a chaste kiss on Stevie’s lips and presses their foreheads together. “Things are what they are, Steven. Not everything has to imply something. I’m not husband material, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Xabi has his eyes shut, and his face is so close Stevie can see all the little imperfections on his skin. The tiny little ginger beard that threatens to grow on his face every day, the odd zit mark accusing the existence of an adolescence in Xabi’s life time. Sometimes Stevie thinks he wasn’t born at all, just created as a fully grown man out of nothing but suits, wayfarers and indie music. 

You need to get really close to see the flaws in this man, Stevie thinks. Otherwise he just looks like a very beautiful, very elegant brick wall. Nothing gets past him. But Stevie does. Stevie catches the little moments of uncertainties, when brown eyes have to wander off for just a second because not even Xabi is that good at saying things he doesn’t mean and sounding honest. He sees the little cracks on his façade, the fear and the sorrow that slip out just that tiny bit - blink and you’ll miss it. It’s all there. Stevie just wishes he could figure out the meaning of all that. 

“You know,” he starts. “I always get the feeling you’re dumping me, between the lines.”

Xabi raises his head and looks him right in the eye - unblinking, unwavering. “Don’t be stupid, Steven,” is all he says, before shutting him up with a kiss.

x-x-x

Fernando is wearing nothing but one of his really old, really big sweatpants, barely hanging around his hips. And an apron, of course. He’s leaning over the kitchen island, eyes trained and very focused on cutting a carrot in minutely even parts. He doesn’t even notice Stevie there, watching him with a goofy smile plastered on his face.

“Is that real food I smell in this kitchen?” he says, and Fernando nearly jumps, letting the knife slip and cut the carrot wrong.

He glowers. “What are you doing here?” Fernando asks. “I’m not done yet.”

“You didn’t give me specifics. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be home yet.”

“I thought that was implied. I’m cooking dinner, that’s supposed to be a big deal.”

“You said ‘don’t be late’, as a threat.”

“Late to dinnertime. It’s not dinnertime yet.”

“What is dinnertime?”

“The time when I’m done cooking dinner.”

“Oh.” Stevie arches his eyebrows. “Sorry, chef. I beg for your forgiveness.”

“I’m not even dressed yet,” Fernando says, throwing all the already cut little pieces of carrot in a bowl.

“You’re getting dressed?” Stevie asks, approaching him to look at what he is doing over his shoulders. “Like, properly dressed?”

“Of course.”

“Wow.” He steals a little carrot and throws it in his mouth. Fernando awards him an evil glare, which he replies by placing a loud peck on his cheek. “Do I have to get dressed too?”

“If you want to.”

“If you’re getting dressed, then I have to get dressed as well.” Fernando doesn’t say anything, attention already back on his task. Stevie moves a step back to fully take on the scene, wondering just how en evening can be so ordinarily domestic when life isn’t that way.

He came home tonight wondering whether he should just come clean to his boyfriend. But this little moment in his kitchen is exactly why he always backfires. Every single time he thinks about telling the truth, Fernando says something, or does something, and Stevie gives up.

He cannot fathom the idea of not having this anymore.

Especially when _this_ is wearing _those_ pants. 

Stevie thinks Fernando’s ass is so perfect it should be illegal. He had his fair share of incredibly hot partners, even the odd female one, but Fernando is in a league of his own. Not even Xabi can compete. The way he inclines his rear back in order to look closer at what he’s doing is just… Honestly, he shouldn’t be allowed to do that. 

He’s probably the only person in the world who manages to make sweatpants look hot. You gotta appreciate that kind of talent.

Stevie presses behind him, arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder; he places a warm kiss on the curve of his boyfriend's neck, feels Fernando shivering in his arms, and then kisses him again.

“Stevie,” Fernando tries to shrug him away. “Get off, I have to finish this,” he says, not sounding nearly as convincing as he’s probably aiming to.

“Hmmm,” Stevie moans softly against his skin. “You don’t need to dress up, Nando. You look stunning. In fact, you probably should dress down.”

Fernando sighs and looks back at him. “Were you rolling around in Carra’s bed?”

Stevie frowns. “What? Why?”

“You have your bed face on.”

He swallows down hard, but manages to keep the sudden nervousness at the pit of his stomach from gaining evidence on his features. “I don’t have a bed face.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What is it like?”

“Well, it’s…” Fernando studies him for a second. “Your hair as all messed up, your face is a bit crumply, and there’s something about your eyes, too.” The agitation begins to get too much for him to keep his cool - either Fernando is too good or he is too obvious. Either way, this is just to prove he's in a clearly way more dangerous game than he’d anticipated. Luckily, Fernando smiles with the bliss of ignorance and says, “Are you cheating on me with Carra?”

The word ‘cheating’ makes Stevie want to drop to his knees and start begging for forgiveness. It also possibly breaks his heart a little bit, because yes, he is cheating on his boyfriend, and he hates that he’s lying to Fernando, he hates that he’s deceiving him. He hates that he just got home still tasting Xabi on his tongue when Fernando is gorgeous wearing sweatpants and cooking dinner, but. 

But he can’t stop it. He doesn’t know how to. And what are you gonna do?

 _“Things are what they are, Steven.”_

“Yes,” he replies with a very serious tone. “I’m sorry.”

Fernando tsks and goes back to cutting carrots. “I always knew Carra would go gay for you.”

“Well, tell that to him and he’ll cut you faster than you can cut that carrot.”

“He’s just in denial.”

Stevie laughs a short, relieved laugh, and kisses Fernando again, closer to his ear this time, allowing his lips to linger there a little longer than before on a silent and slightly desperate apology. He puts one hand under the apron and begins sliding it up Fernando's torso, feeling all the defined muscles under his fingers. Fernando’s breath falters, and Stevie smiles against his skin. “Stevie…” he admonishes. But Stevie doesn’t care.

He wonders what their fans would say if they could see them right now.

It’s quite admirable how hard Fernando’s trying to ignore him and keep up with his work, but his effort is seriously impaired by Stevie rubbing against his back, his hand starting to wander down to his crotch.

Without even realizing it, the Spaniard inclines his head to the side, giving him more access to his neck, to kiss and bite and leave a trace of reddish marks all over his freckled skin, as Stevie claims Fernando for himself.

Fernando turns around in his arms, slowly, and launches forward to smash their lips together once they are face to face. The kiss is sloppy, desperate, like two horny adolescents. He stuffs his hand inside the front of his boyfriend’s pants and smirks when the kiss is interrupted by a moan against his mouth and a sharp breath escaping parted lips.

“You’re… a… bastard,” Fernando says in short bursts, biting on his lower lip and finally dropping the knife on the counter.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Do that and I’ll fucking stab you,” he half-speaks, half-groans before kissing Stevie again, hungrily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost heading into my favorite part of this story! :) Thinking about maybe merging the next few chapters, but that would make one hell of a big chapter. So quick survey: do you prefer shorter or longer chapters?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and the next few ones 'cause they are probably my favorite part of this whole story. I'm really looking forward to reading your thoughts and reactions, I just _love_ reading and answering all your feedback, so, please, don't shy away from speaking your mind! Favorite bits always create an extra expectation on me and I tend to get discouraged if I think no one agrees with me. Hahaha NO PRESSURE, THO! It's all love! \o/
> 
> As always, please forgive my many mistakes, as the story hasn't been beta'ed. I did read this chapter over about a billion times and tried to catch at least the most glaring mistakes, but, you know... Probably missed a few.

_Three years earlier…_

Daniel is startled awake by a crane trying to take down the walls. It takes him whole five seconds to even recognize where he is. But the walls are pretty much still there, and he’s slightly disoriented but the thinks the shaking is just his head spinning a little, not the hotel falling apart.

“I’m coming! Fucking Christ!” Finns swears next to him, tumbling out of bed and pulling the sheet away with him to wrap around his waist and cover his modesty. 

Daniel rubs his face with his hands trying to make some sense out of the world. It’s hard to tell whether that numbness is just sleep or some more unnatural form of daze. But it is certainly keeping him from thinking straight. And there’s something nipping on the back of his head… Something important, like a sense of urgency, something he’s forgetting… It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't, for the love of God, put his finger on it.

It turns out it’s not a demolition after all; it’s only their manager knocking on the door as though he’s announcing the arrival of doomsday. Nine times out of ten, Daniel would've preferred the first option.

Carra is standing outside, hands in his pockets like he’s the bloody Terminator, ready to shoot someone in the eye.

Oh. Right. _That_ is what he forgot.

“Hey, Carra,” Finns says, one hand holding the sheet to keep it from falling while the other’s on the door. Dan really doesn't know how in hell's name that man manages to sound civil and _nice_ right now, considering how destroyed they are, but Finns just makes it seem effortless. _Nice_ is default with him, it's just how he is. 

Pleasantries don’t seem to do much for him, though; Jamie doesn’t even bother, just walks in and takes a long once over at their small, messy room. 

Finns’ room, actually. Daniel is, technically, sharing a two beds with Pepe. Finns, being Finns, insisted on getting a double bed room just for himself, and, well… Carra wasn’t supposed to know. 

“ _You two don’t fucking know how to behave yourselves. Not in this life I'm going to room you together_ ,” he said - or rather screamed at them. “ _You’re staying with Pepe, and if I hear another chirp, you’re rooming with me_.”

Daniel certainly hadn’t _chirped_ after that, but he’d arranged with Pepe for this to be their tiny little secret. He slips out at night, once everyone is out of sight, to sleep with Finns. Ideally, he would've been back early in the morning. They nearly got away with it, but last night was just... A bit out of control, to say the least. 

“Could you fucking cover yourself?” The Scouser picks up a duvet from the floor and throws it at Daniel, who only then realizes Finns had left him stark naked when he took the sheet away. 

“Sorry,” he says, sheepishly, pulling the covers up.

Finns shuts the door behind him and locks eyes with Daniel behind Carra’s back. He makes a little grimace that says ‘we’re fucked’, and then smiles. Daniel has to turn his face away to keep from laughing. 

The sound of something hitting the bed turns his attention back to Carra, who just kicked something on the floor and is now helplessly shaking his head. “Fuck,” he mutters. “This is… I don’t even bloody know. Just fuck this.” He’s talking to himself, Daniel notices. Not that this is the first time he’s done it, but there’s something about Carra that’s just off today, as in different from all the other times he and Finns got a monumental scold from their manager. 

Carra looks like someone died.

Neither he nor Finns dare to make a single noise as they wait for the apocalypse to be unleashed. 

The heavy silence filling the room stretches for seconds, minutes - hours, maybe, decades, until Daniel starts to get restless. He scratches the back of his neck, looks at Finns, looks at Carra, then back at Finns and someone _has_ to say something because he cannot, for the love of Christ, take this apprehension. 

“Daniel,” Jamie finally breaks the ice, lifting his eyes to him. What Daniel sees there sends a jolt of something right up his spine. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not good. Carra seems… sad. Deeply and overwhelmingly sad. That's not a common look on Carra; in fact, Dan only remembers seeing him like that once before, and it was... Not his finest moment, to keep it simple. Recognizing that look on his face makes his throat catch and his heart skip a beat. It's definitely a bad omen. “Get dressed and get down,” he continues. “The boys are waiting for you in my room.”

Daniel frowns. “Why?”

“They’ll tell you why.”

“But -”

“Just stop asking. Get your fucking clothes on and get out of here.” It’s that tone - angered and powerful and intimidating like hell. The tone that no one argues with, ever.

“Fine,” he agrees, and leans over the bed to start picking up his clothes. “Aren’t you gonna tell Finns to -”

“Steve stays here,” Jamie cuts him off. “We need to have a conversation.”

Well, this is… unexpected. Usually, Carra puts them both together in a room and shouts the hell out of them for an hour. There were times when Daniel honestly thought they’d get beaten up. And it wouldn’t have been uncalled for either. But this new arrangement for the reprimanding session… He’s not sure what to think of it except that it can’t be good news.

The Dane puts on his jeans, suddenly feeling very self-conscious under Jamie’s unwavering gaze. He gets out of bed and picks up his t-shirt, all wrinkled and stained. Has he been wearing the same thing for three days now or…?

“Just go, Daniel. They’re waiting.”

He sighs. “All right, all right…” He throws the shirt on, but doesn’t mind going after his sneakers. Before walking out, he looks once more at the Scouser, who’s watching him with an unfamiliar anguish that is making something jump maniacally inside of Daniel.

“Look,” he starts, and he means to be sincere and strong while saying this, because whatever is about to happen here, it’s not going to be neat. But he can’t. As soon as Carra’s stony grey eyes meet his, he has to look away. “I’m sorry ab-”

“About missing your fourth appointment this month? So you keep saying. At least you didn’t OD this time. That’s progress, right?”

And that is... Well. It stings, but it's also true. Dan wants to reply, to say it's not like that, even though Carra's not entirely wrong either, but nothing comes out, words dying somewhere between his brain and his mouth. It’s hard to think, it’s hard to do even get a grasp of what's going on. He’s too freaking slow to be having this conversation. Daniel needs… Well. He needs something he can’t get right now, not with Carra in the room, not when he’s about to get slammed for the very reason that he needs it in the first place. He’s gonna have to make do.

“We… Overslept. I'm sorry,” he tries, and immediately knows it’s the wrong thing to say as Carra’s lips tremble on an unspoken sort of fury that warns of coming violence the same way dark clouds threaten of rain.

“Daniel, if you don’t get out of my face in two seconds, I won’t be responsible for my actions.” Carra keeps his voice oddly civil, which makes his menace sound all the more dangerous.

“Ok, I’ll go. I’m going.”

He brushes by Finns on his way out and bumps his boyfriend lightly on the shoulder in a ‘good luck’ gesture. Whatever it is that awaits him downstairs, it can’t be as hard as being alone with Jamie when he’s on the verge of abandon. 

If Finns is worried - which he should be - he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he smiles. He’s always smiling. Daniel admires that about Finns; nothing’s ever taken that smile away from him. It’s reassuring in a way that nothing else ever is. To Daniel, it feels like everything’s going to be fine so long as Finns keeps on smiling through the storms for him.

Just before he leaves, though, he turns to see what was it on the floor that Carra kept on staring at.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, as he counts four discarded tourniquets.

x-x-x

Daniel brushes his teeth as he considers his options. Fernando’s turned him down, so that’s one less item on his list. You can’t always get what you want, is what they say. That leaves him with random bar, idling away by himself or Pepe’s. He always goes to Pepe when he’s got nothing else to do. The Spaniard doesn’t even get offended by the fact he’s the it’s-either-this-or-dying option anymore. It’s really touching how Pepe is always ready to embrace Daniel’s boredom with enthusiasm.

But the Pepe type of banter couldn’t be further off removed from his mood tonight.

Nicklas is playing at that crappy club in Manchester he fancies so much. His friend kept nagging him about it the whole week. Daniel wasn’t actually thinking about going, but then he had better ideas on how to spend his night. Now, Nicklas’ stupid house music doesn’t seem like such a horrible thing after all. 

The last time he went out to one of Nicklas’ tacky clubs he was introduced to one of his DJ friends. Squirtle, Suirtle, Sturtle. Or something. Cool tattoos, bald head, angular jaw, weird accent, eyes of a child murderer. But the man sure gave a mean blowjob. Daniel could use one of those tonight. If he gets lucky, Skittles will even be there again.

Daniel picks up his phone and types a quick message to his friend - _‘Am coming. Save some of the good booze for me’_ \- and puts it back down. Then he picks it up again and types _‘Ask Squirtles whats-his-name over’_ and hits send. He leaves it on the bed and drops his wet towel, opening his closet to find himself something to wear.

A club where Nicklas is playing can’t be a place for well-dressed people.

Daniel puts on a black jeans and a dark grey t-shirt, with a button down black-and-white plaid shirt on top. As basic as anything. He’s about to go get his hair fixed when his phone starts ringing.

He’s ready to start the conversation by mentioning that thing Skittles did with his tongue when he notices it doesn’t say Nicklas on the screen; it’s a private number. Again.

“Hello,” he answers, and, as expected, nothing. It’s the third time today. Whichever stupid fangirl or boy is doing this is getting on his bloody nerves already. “Who the fuck is this? Stop call -”

“Hey,” a weak, shaky voice that sounds like it’s coming from beyond a hole on the ground speaks on the other side and Daniel’s heart stops beating for a full second. “Hey, Dan,” the person says again. “I’m sorry. Is this… Is this a bad time?”

It’s his turn to stay quiet now. It feels like a truck just ran over him, and then put on reverse gear and ran him over again. There are literally a million things going through his head at the same time and it becomes seemingly impossible to speak with his heart pounding insanely in his mouth.

“Dan? Are you -”

“I’m here,” he hurries to respond, and it nearly takes his breath away. “I’m here, I’m… Here.”

There’s a pause. A fat, pregnant, three years long pause. “I’m sorry, I think… I shouldn’t have… This is a mistake.”

“Finns.” The name tastes odd on his tongue. He hasn’t said it out loud in quite a while. It leaves a trace of bitterness so strong that his eyes begin to water.

On the other end, there’s a tiny, little laugh. It sounds so far away. “You recognized me,” Finns says. “Have to admit for a moment there I didn’t think you would. Not even I recognize myself sometimes.”

Daniel has to sit down, because fuck. This feels too much like he just took on a call from the afterlife. There’s a ringing in his ears, like something just blew up next to him. Of course he recognized the voice. It sounds completely different, but still somehow the same as three years back. Finns' voice was all he heard in his head during his six months in rehab, and for most of the time right after that, to the point Daniel wondered if maybe he was going a bit crazy. Which he probably was, actually.

“Well,” Finns continues, when he doesn’t say anything. “Maybe I should call you some -”

“No.” He swallows down hard past the lump in his throat and stretches out his hand in front of his face just to check what he already suspects: he’s shaking like hell. “No. This is a good time,” he says, hoping his voice is coming through steadier than his hands. “It’s just… unexpected. That’s all.”

“Ah,” Finns says. “I’m not sure why I’m -” he stops, then starts over. “I saw a picture today. A poster, I mean. Of you and the band, and I thought… Well, I felt like saying hi.” Another awkward pause. “Hi.”

Daniel’s mouth opens and closes about a million times before he can get himself to produce any sounds. He’s got no idea what he’s supposed to say, only that he has to say something, and maybe if he opens his mouth words will come out and sort themselves out. When it finally happens, it’s “Where are you?” that he asks.

“Liverpool.”

“What?” His heart is definitely about to rip a hole in his chest and take off now.

“Yeah.”

“You’re… Liverpool? England?”

“Is there any other place called Liverpool?”

“Fuck, Finns.” His voice cracks up a bit. “Where?”

“Uhm… A little hotel. Just outside the city, really.”

“Which hotel?”

There’s a weary sigh on the other end, incredibly heavy, like it pains Finns just to breathe. “I’m not sure.”

“Stephen,” he says, as a warning, and feels his heart sink a little bit at that name. It’s been too fucking long.

“I’m not sure you should know.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a shithole.”

“So what? I’m used to shitholes.”

“Not like this one, you’re not.”

Daniel snaps his mouth shut and tries to think. He can’t fully process the idea that Finns, his Finns, is right there, in Liverpool. And he doesn’t know where. “Tell me somewhere we can meet then.”

It takes Finns a moment too long to answer. “I don’t think that’s a good idea either.”

“Why?”

“Because… I just don’t.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Daniel, it’s… It’s complicated.”

“Know what’s fucking complicated?” he starts, raising his tone and getting positively angered now, his ire triggered by that awful sensation that Finns is trying to escape him again. He just found him and he’s already slipping away. Daniel wants to pull on his hair, scream, run around and cry all at the same time. It’s despairing. “You call me, tell me you’re here and then say you don’t want to see me? Fucking bullshit, Finns. You either tell me where you are or you tell me some place else where we can meet in the next twenty minutes or I’m hunting you down until I find you and it’s not going to be pretty. Take your pick.”

There’s a pause and then a chuckle. It’s been years but Daniel can picture it perfectly: Finns smiling with those dimples on his cheeks, shaking his head in that helpless manner of his of thinking everything is always oh, so amusing. Like Daniel hasn’t been waiting for this moment for three years. 

“Fine,” he finally agrees. “Do you remember Archie’s?”

“Yes.”

“Is it still there?”

“Yes.”

“Archie’s then.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Dan, don’t you think we should wai -”

“ _Twenty minutes_.”

Finns sighs. “All right. Archie’s. Twenty minutes. Roger that.”

“Finns?”

“Yes?”

Daniel takes a deep breath, tries to quiet down the riot inside, and says, “Please, show up.”

Finns waits. “I will.”

“Ok.”

“See you, Danny.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes.”

And then Finns hangs up, and Daniel feels his bones turn into water and his knees jitter and he’s not sure he can stand up. Or drive. Or think, talk, walk. He hasn’t felt this out of himself since… Well, in three years actually. Only this time there’s no twisted substance rushing through his veins, it’s just his own blood high on anxiety and adrenalin, pumping in incredible speed and making him dizzy. He stares down at the phone in his hand, still not quite believing what just happened. 

Finns. It was really, actually… Finns.

 _Damn_.

“Twenty minutes,” he repeats and forces himself up, storming out of the house and into his car.

x-x-x

_Three years earlier…_

The walk to Jamie’s room is slow and painful. His arms are itchy, his legs are wobbly and his heart is beating out of rhythm. He’s sweating like a pig, and whether that’s sheer nervousness or something else he doesn’t know. What he does know, however, is that the anticipation is killing him, but he’s not entirely sure he’s that eager to find out what this group meeting is all about anyway.

When he stops in front of the door, Daniel takes a deep breath. Then another. And another. Air is suddenly failing him. Why is he even this nervous? It’s not like this is his first time facing the inquisition. 

When he finally gathers enough courage to open the door, he finds the atmosphere inside is even worse than he imagined. The air is incredibly heavy and he feels immediately engulfed by a sense of pure dejection as he walks in. It’s like walking into a funeral. His own funeral, in this case.

Pepe is sitting by himself on a chair by a small table in the corner, playing with a pen; Xabi and Stevie are standing next to the window. No one is saying a thing. Pepe looks at him with nothing but sadness; Xabi is as unreadable as ever; Stevie… Stevie is just blatantly furious.

Daniel sits down next to Pepe because it seems to be the safer option; it’s usually in Pepe that he finds the most comprehension in this sort of situation. But soon he realizes that the sorrow on the drummer’s face is making him sick. Sicker.

“Who died?” he asks to no one in particular, looking from one to the other like a snippy teenager, juvenile and obnoxious just because, and he gets nothing but the same sharp-cold quietness. Probably not the best time to have that kind of nerve then. But it’s kind of hard not to, when he feels like a cornered animal, surrounded by people who are out to get him. 

Sighing, he opts for a smoother approach instead - the sooner he gets this over with, the better.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” he starts again, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “I overslept. I know I screwed up. And I’m sorry.”

Stevie pushes himself away from the window and takes short, purposeful steps towards him. At first Daniel thinks he’s gonna get punched, so when Stevie comes to a halt next to him, he instinctively turns his face to the side and closes his eyes, preparing for the blow. But it’s not his face the Scouser is going for. In one none-too gentle move, Stevie pulls Daniel’s arms to him and holds them stretched out. 

The Dane hadn’t even noticed the purple marks covering his skin. His veins are protruding monstrously out, enormous and blue. The tiny little punctures from the needles are dark and swollen. It looks… Terrible, he has to admit. Like he’s got an infection or the early stages of gangrene. And he’s only vaguely shocked by the fact that the first thing to cross his mind is that he should get his tattoos done soon, to cover up all this mess and avoid the disgusted looks (Stevie) or the compassionate ones (Pepe). Frankly he’s not too sure which is worse.

“Overslept,” Stevie says, flatly. Daniel frees himself from the singer in a violent jerk, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the marks. “You are unbelievable, Daniel. Un-fucking-believable. Do you even remember how nearly dying feels like? Because it wasn’t that long ago and this is already the fourth time you screw up just this month. Don’t you ever stop? Don’t you ever fucking _think_?!”

“Stevie,” Pepe admonishes, trying to get their vocalist, already completely overtaken by anger, to slow down. But Stevie is having none of it.

“No,” he quiets Pepe with a hand, not taking his blazing eyes away from Daniel. Normally, the Dane doesn’t have a problem standing up to any of them. Even when he knows he’s not supposed to. He especially likes challenging Stevie, who seems to think someone put him in charge without anyone ever really making him leader. But this time… This time it’s almost painful to look at him. Daniel feels small and weak and naked under the burning scrutiny of his band mates. He has to admit defeat here. So he hangs his head down and refuses to meet Stevie’s eyes, or anyone else’s for that matter.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing, Daniel?” he continues. “This isn’t just about you. When we tell you we have an important meeting, it’s a fucking _massive_ meeting, not just getting drunk and making out in Carra’s flat anymore. This is serious! You want to get your head so stuffed with this shit so you can’t even remember your own name, fine. But we've been working off our arses for years now and you _cannot_ cock this up for the rest of us!” 

Stevie gives him silence to fill in, but he doesn’t say anything. Daniel thinks maybe he should. Maybe he should have an answer for all that. Like standing up for himself or putting Stevie back in his place. But he doesn’t. If he can be honest, even as he still feels a bit high and as his body starts to ask for more - and _God_ , his arms are fucking hurting - he knows Stevie is right. And there are very few things worse than that fucker being right about anything.

“You got nothing to say for yourself?” Stevie asks.

Daniel looks up, finally getting himself to stare at him levelly. “What do you want me to say? I already apologized.”

“I want you to fucking admit that you’re out of control!” Stevie nearly screams at his face. “Go on! Say it, Daniel!”

“I know, alright?!” Daniel yells back. “You don’t have to shout it at me, I _know_.”

“And what else am I going to do? Shouting is clearly not having any kind of effect, because that’s all I’ve been doing for the last year. Maybe I should start hitting you instead!”

“Do you want to hit me?” Daniel jumps to his feet, knocking back the chair with a violent jerk, and takes a step closer to Stevie, making use of all the few centimeters of advantage he’s got. “Hit me, then. Put that fist of yours on my face if that’s going to make you feel better.”

Stevie seems to bite on the inside of his lips, his hands balling into fists. He’s gonna do it, Daniel thinks. For a second there, he’s certain Stevie’s arm is going to fly in his direction and they’re going to finally - _finally_ \- get all those years of barely veiled antagonism out of their systems. That fist fight has been building for a long, long time and all he wants is a tiny bit of opportunity to smash Steven Gerrard’s precious nose. 

“If you don’t shut your stupid mouth right now, Daniel, I swear to God -”

Before the Englishman can actually do something, however, Pepe materializes between the two of them, puts his hand on Daniel’s chest and pushes him away. “Stop it,” the Spaniard admonishes. “Or I’ll be kicking the hell out of the two of you.”

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Stevie speaks to him again, like Pepe isn’t even there.

Daniel tries getting closer to him again, but the Spaniard stops him one more time, motioning for him to back off while he holds Stevie behind with his other arm in front of the man. “And you think you own me. Hell, you think you own _all of us_!”

“I’m your bloody leader!”

“Who made you?!”

“Shut up, both of you!” Pepe yells out, giving a hard push on the two of them. Daniel trips back and nearly falls down, but manages to stay up and not embarrass himself in front of Your Royal Bollocks. “Dear God. What are you, twelve?! This is not why we’re here.”

“But it is!” Stevie continues, this time keeping a safe distance. “He brought us here because he’s a knobhead who thinks he doesn’t owe us anything! Like a bloody child! He doesn’t get this is serious now. It’s our fucking careers he’s jeopardizing, not just his.” Stevie is talking to Pepe, but looking straight at Daniel. “He nearly got himself killed and he still doesn’t know what he’s doing. _Fuck_! I can’t deal with - Just… Arrogant fucker!” Stevie turns on his heels and goes back to the window. Daniel watches in silence as he punches the wall next to it with a loud grunt, anger radiating from all over, probably imagining it’s Daniel’s ‘arrogant’ face he’s breaking. 

He moves his eyes from Stevie to Xabi. Their guitar man’s been oddly quiet so far. He doesn’t try to sooth Stevie or offer him any kind of support, just lets him vent and yell and punch whatever the hell he needs to punch. But when he turns to look at Daniel, he’s visibly upset, and Daniel thinks he’s never seen Xabi Alonso seeming so flagrantly sad like he does right now.

Stevie is right, Daniel thinks. He’s an ass, but he’s right. And that only makes it all worse.

“What happens now?” he asks, voice hoarse and more than a little shaky around the edges. “Are you kicking me out of the band?”

“No,” Pepe hurries to say. “But we have to do something.”

He isn’t completely certain he wants to hear the answer, but wounds up asking "What?" anyway.

“We had a conversation.” Xabi now, approaching him at last, hands in his pockets and as collected as always. “There’s nothing else we can do for you, Daniel. We tried, but there’s only so much we can offer to someone who doesn’t want to accept help. Being patient with you is obviously not doing you any good, so…” He exchanges a quick glance with Pepe before continuing. “We decided you need to go to rehab.”

Of course. Why didn’t he see that coming?

It was only a matter of time. The subject had been discussed several times before, but never as a real possibility, more like a threat. This time, though…

They really mean it.

He looks from Pepe to Xabi and back again in search of… something; some kind of solidarity, or… pity. He feels totally pathetic, but the sense of desperation growing inside of him right now is greater than any self-respect. Daniel wants them to pity him and not send him to rehab.

“Rehab,” he repeats, chocking at the back of his throat as he swallows down resentment and bile. “You can’t - I can’t… You’re going to ship me off to rehab? I can’t do it, I can’t… I won’t do it,” he stutters, words spilling out as a heartfelt agony takes over him.

“You have to,” Pepe offers, calm but firm.

“What if I refuse?”

“Then you’re out.”

His eyes begin to burn, but crying in front of them seems too much, even now. So Daniel bites his lower lip and forces the tears back in as hard as he can. He’s not going to cry, he’s not - 

“This is for your own good, Daniel,” Xabi says again and all Dan can think is that this is his life that bloody Spaniard’s talking about with the listlessness of a person who discusses the news. He wants to rip that calmness off Xabi’s face with his bare hands.

“Don’t try to act like you give a shit, Xabi. None of you do. You’re just going to lock me up in a mental institution and you talk about it like you’re sending me to freaking Disneyland! You just don't want me to be your problem anymore! You don’t give a shit!”

“It’s not a mental institution, Daniel. Rehab is a - ”

“I know what the fuck rehab is!”

“Then you should know that it’s exactly what you need,” Pepe cuts him off sharply. “If we didn’t give a shit about you, you wouldn’t be in this band anymore. We thought you were gonna die, damn it! And even after what you went through, you still…” He trails off, rubs his face with his hands. “Somebody has to worry about you, ‘cause you clearly won’t do it yourself.”

“How long?” Dan asks. “How long in rehab?”

“It’s a six-month program,” Xabi answers. "For starters. It could be more."

“ _Six mon_ \- You have to be _fucking kidding me_!” He shakes his head vehemently in denial. “I can’t. I can’t go to rehab for six months. It’s too long. I won’t… _I can’t_. It's going to _kill_ me.”

“Drugs are killing you right now, Daniel," Pepe says, perhaps choking on his words a little bit.

“Either you go or you have to quit, Dan,” Xabi adds. “If you won’t help yourself… I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can do. We’ve been trying to deal with you and Finns for over a year now.”

“ _Deal with us_? That's all we are - some _shit_ you have to deal with. Well, we’re not your fucking problem, Xabi.”

“But you are, don’t you see? Whether you believe it or not, we can’t carry on with our lives and jobs thinking that one of you could be lying in a gutter covered in your own vomit. Every time you two disappear, that's the first thing that crosses our minds. You've overdosed once, Daniel, it's only a matter of time until it happens again, and then God knows what will happen to you. What you two do affects all of us. We can’t be a band without you, but right now we can’t be a band with you either.” Xabi is stern and decisive, but Daniel sees something flitting across his face that almost, just _almost_ , passes for genuine concern. 

He swallows down hard again. “What about Finns? What happens to him?”

“Carra is having this same conversation with him right now.”

“He’s going to rehab too?”

“If he takes our offer, yes.”

Finns will never take the offer. He tried rehab before; he had Daniel slipping him drugs during the first week and ran away from the clinic after the second. 

But if Finns takes it…

Daniel licks his dry lips, feels all the little cracks with the tip of his tongue. His mouth tastes sour like something died in there. Possibly his soul. “Where?” he asks. 

“Scotland.”

He lets out a mirthless laughter, something akin to a whimper. “Scotland,” he repeats. “Why don’t you just ship me off to Siberia?”

“It’s a quiet place,” Xabi explains.

“It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“It is not in the middle of nowhere, and it’s _a quiet place_ ,” Xabi repeats it one more time, with emphasis. 

“Look,” Dan starts. “How about…. How about you give me another chance? I know that it seems like I’m out of control, but I’m really not. And neither is Finns, really. We can work this out. We can quit. I swear.”

“You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?” Stevie drops back into the conversation. “I’ve heard this same story a thousand times already. I heard it from Finns when you had a fucking tube down your throat. You are way over your head, Daniel. You and Finns both and the only one who doesn’t seem to get how fucked up you truly are yourself, which is saying enough. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror today? Do you have any idea what you look like?” 

Daniel doesn’t know what to say to that because, truthfully, he hadn’t. As if out of its own will, his hands go up to his head and he flattens down his disheveled and oily hair, as if that will make him any more presentable. 

He doesn’t know what he looks like, but he can assume. 

“Don’t even bother. You still look like shit,” Stevie adds, just to make the point clear, or maybe twist the knife a little bit further. “We’re not going to sit down and watch as you kill yourself. Not again. I’ve had enough of that. So you can either take what we have to offer you or you can pack your bags and go shoot up somewhere else.”

The Dane tries to find some kind of sympathy on the other two band members, any kind, but is left hopeless. Pepe and Xabi aren’t as harsh as Gerrard, but they’re all grim lines and just as impassive.

That’s it then, he thinks. There’s something inexplicably at stake here, and he can’t seem to tell what exactly it is, if just his career, or his future in The Red Kop, or maybe simply his entire life and happiness, whatever that really is. Whichever way he picks, there’s a world of pain ahead, and Daniel realizes, unsurprisingly, that that gut-wrenching feeling at the bottom of his stomach, making him nauseated and edgy, is not just the effect of early withdrawal, but also of fear.

He’s dead scared. 

His first instinct is to get out of there as fast as possible, to run and hide, find a corner where he can disappear in and never come back out. Somehow, though, he manages to stay still. Nearly still. He’s restless and shaking, but he’s not going anywhere. Yet. “What about the band?”

“We’ll take a break,” Pepe explains.

“A break?”

“For six months.”

“What happens when I get out?”

“We’ll be waiting for you,” Xabi adds with unfamiliar warmth in his voice. “We’ll take the time to work on some new stuff, prepare for recording, whatever. We’ll think of something to do in the meanwhile.”

“How can I be sure of that?” he asks. “How can I trust that you won’t just put someone else in my place and tell me to fuck off?”

“Daniel,” Pepe says, evenly. “We won’t.” It’s a promise.

They’re giving him a choice that is not a choice at all really. It’s a pick between losing everything and going through hell for six months. Maybe more. He doesn’t think he can do it, he’s not strong enough… 

But Finns will go with him. Finns will smile and say it’s fine, will tell a joke and pretend he’s not dying a little bit inside as well just for the sake of it. Just because he knows that’s what Daniel needs. That’s what Finns does. Finns keeps him weathering through the shittiest storms.

Slowly and lacking in conviction, Daniel nods his head. Pepe breathes out heavily; Xabi nods back at him; Stevie stares. No. Stevie _glowers_. 

He wants to run away, but he stays.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I ask you to forgive any mistakes you might find. Story hasn't been beta'ed and it's way too late for me to be doing proper proof-reading! Took some time rewriting bits of this chapter, it's one my favorites, I think. 
> 
> Feedback is muuuuch, much welcome and I appreciate hearing your thoughts. :) It seriously makes my day, so please don't be shy!

_“Come on, come on, come on, come on…”_

Daniel repeats the words under his breath like a mantra, eyes fixed on the red light as if that’s going to make it turn green any quicker. No traffic light has ever taken so long to turn green in history. Maybe it’s broken. What if it’s broken? What if it never turns green? What if they have to block the street to fix the light and no one can go through until they’re done?

 _Damn it._ Not even at Archie’s yet and he’s already freaking out.

Daniel can’t really remember the last time he felt this nervous. Possibly when he went to rehab. Maybe when he came back as well. But this is different. He feels as though he’s running a marathon against time. Finns is like freaking Carmen Sandiego; he can’t let him escape now that he’s so close, otherwise God knows when he’ll get a second shot.

When the light finally does turn green, Daniel releases a harsh breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding and hits the pedal with so much purpose the tires screech high as the car rushes forward.

That’s when his phone starts ringing again.

“Shit,” he mutters, moving one anxious hand to retrieve it. A car stops in front of him and the phone bounces away from his hand. “Fuck!” he yells to no one in particular, almost hitting the back of the car in front of him. In hindsight, maybe driving himself wasn't the best idea, considering the state of affliction he's in. He should’ve just taken a cab. That's what a sound person would've done. But if there's one thing Daniel Agger definitely _isn't_ at the moment is sound.

When he does finally get the mobile back, he’s part relieved to see it isn’t Finns calling him to maybe say he changed his mind, and part angry because it’s fucking Nicklas who nearly caused him an accident.

“What?” 

“Heeey,” Nicklas greets him with that type of cheerfulness that hurts Daniel's ears at times. “Where are you?”

“In my car.”

“I meant _where_ , as in, how long ‘till you get here?”

Daniel frowns. “Here where?” He’s so glad he decided to give in to modern ways and buy an automatic car right now; driving with an actual gearshift whilst talking on the phone and having a mini heart attack at the same time would be so much more complicated.

“What are you, doped? Manchester, of course.”

“Manchester?”

“No, Nepal! Of course it’s Manchester. You just sent me a text, Daniel.” _Oh, fuck_. Daniel completely forgot about that. “Heeey,” Nicklas continues in a provocative tone. “Guess who’s here and asking for you already.”

“Look, Nicklas -”

“It’s Martin!”

“Who the fuck is Martin?”

“Skrtel!”

“… who?”

Nicklas sighs. “Skittles.”

“Oh,” he says. “Right.” There is Skittles too. “Look, tell _Martin_ or whoever, that I’m sorry, ok? I can’t make it tonight.”

“What?! You literally told me you were on your way less than half an hour ago. How can you forget about it so fast?” Nicklas is like that; promising him something is the same as signing an unbreakable deal using your own blood as ink. You’re not allowed to change your mind afterwards. Usually Daniel tries not to promise anything unless he’s completely sure he can fulfill it because he knows his friend is very touchy and easily upset - not to mention a pain in the ass. But right now, regardless of how much he loves Nicklas, he couldn’t care less about his feelings.

“Something came up. I’ll make it up to you some other day, ok? But I can’t tonight, Nick.”

“But _Daaan_ -”

“Nick, I just can’t, ok?!” Daniel cuts him off, sensing a begging session is about to start. He doesn’t have time or head for that kind of thing right now. Not when Archie’s is two street-turns away. “I have to go, I’m driving. Tell Sturtle I said hi. Have fun. Bye.” He ends the call and throws the phone carelessly to the side, coming to a sudden, screeching halt as he nearly misses the place.

He’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to park the car where he does, but screw it. They can take his car away for all he cares; it has already served its purpose to bring him here in record time. Parking tickets be damned. 

Archie’s is a pretty ordinary kind of pub. In fact, he’d say it’s actually a little dirtier than most pubs. The kind of strong-rooted, rough-looking place that only the true, long-time customers go to. Anyone else with a bit of a better taste or slightly less liverpudlian pride would choose somewhere classier and with better food. But Daniel’s got history with this place, although he doesn’t remember half of it and was too high for the most part of the rest. 

It was also in Archie’s bathroom that Daniel snorted coke for the first time. Things escalated pretty fast thereupon. Half of his life in Liverpool was spent at Archie's, doing things Daniel now sort of regrets, but probably not as much as he should.

The air inside is thick and warm and he hasn’t put his feet in here for years, but it seems like it hasn’t changed at all. Places like this never do, it's why they resist all the modern trend of _gourmetizing_ everything. Daniel takes a look around, eyes nervously searching across the room, from table to table, fixing each and every person's face. Will he even recognize Finns? Has he changed a lot in those three years? 

Daniel looks down at his watch; it’s been exactly twenty four minutes since they spoke on the phone, which makes Finns late. Uncertainty runs across his body in a shuddery wave. 

With a deep breath to calm his nerves, Daniel walks to an empty table in the corner. Hidden enough, but still a good spot to keep an eye on everyone coming in and out of the pub. Damn hurry and jangly nerves made him rush out of the house without his pack of cigarettes; he could really use some smoke right now. He asks for a pint of beer and hopes alcohol does the trick.

Every time the door creaks open, the blood rushes up to his head so fast he nearly passes out. When Finns finally arrives, though, seventeen minutes later, Daniel feels relaxed instead of on the verge of a stroke. 

_He’s here. He’s actually, really here._

Daniel watches from the corner as the other man stops by the entrance with a timid droop on his shoulders and looks around the pub. His hair is way shorter than it used to be, like Finns shaved his head and it only started to grow back now, spiky and dark. Daniel means to raise a hand and catch his attention, only to find out he’s somewhat paralyzed, his hands glued to the glass he squeezes with such strength it might as well break at any moment. He just sits still. After all that madness and the anticipation, Daniel does nothing but wait.

It takes Finns maybe another 30 seconds before he spots him. The Irishman smiles, blinks once, then twice, then finally, with short, hesitant steps, walks to his table. When he’s near enough, Daniel realizes he looks... small. Much smaller than he remembers. His cheekbones are higher than ever, his dimples are now craters on his ashen face and there are strange red marks on his skin, like tiny little pimples. His dark grey coat is old and battered and frayed around the edges. The jeans are exactly what Daniel’s trousers looked like when he was 15 and a rebel: thrashed and shabby. Not something a 36-year-old should be wearing. The boots are thick with mud and just as worn as the rest of his outfit. It’s almost as if his clothes are wearing him( although swallowing would be the most appropriate word), and not the other way around.

When Daniel finally raises his eyes back to Finns’ face, he finds the man has been watching him with a calm half-smile gracing his lips, waiting for him to be done with his inspection. “I know, not what you were expecting,” he says, almost amused. “I get that a lot.”

It’s with a little spark of happiness that Daniel notices his eyes are exactly the same as before. Not quite green, not quite blue; full warmth and kindness.

“Hello, Daniel,” he says again, with a raspy tone that still sounds like he’s talking from the underground even though he’s standing right there.

“Hey," he reply, his own voice sounding weak.

“Do you mind if I…” Finns motions to the spot in front of Dan across the table, to which the Dane just nods his head. 

Finns sits and tries to disguise a nervous breath with another smile. He’s skin and bones. So thin he could snap if the wrong kind of wind catches him distracted.

Daniel had hopes coming here tonight. Maybe Finns actually did go back to Ireland as he was told he would, found himself a place where he could go and get clean. Maybe the reason why he disappeared for so long was because he was uncertain about whether getting in touch with all this was a wise thing to do when it had nearly ruined him once. Maybe he just didn't want to remember. Which - it would hurt like hell if Finns has walked out on Dan because he couldn't bear to look at his face and live up to all the shit he'd done in the past. But it would at least feel good to know he's all right, after all. That he found some sort of solace somewhere else, some sort of happiness.

But it was all just wishful thinking, after all.

Finns keeps that unwavering smile on his face, a strange look in his eyes, sort of sad, sort of distant. Daniel is... thoughtful. Remembering things. Comparing this man to the one he last saw in a hotel room three years ago. They look nothing like each other, except for those eyes, which are gentle and soft still, but so, so much older, hiding a battered and tired soul. 

They fall into a quietness that it both awkward and simply impossible to avoid. It’s not that there is nothing to be said, quite the opposite; the problem is that there is too much. There’s no way to rank what matters most or what should come first. It’s hard to begin.

Instead of talking, Daniel analyses. 

Finns doesn't look whole or steady. His hands are shivering like he's terribly cold, but his smile never wavers, and it tugs at something deep inside of Daniel in a way that feels incredibly good at the same time it is terribly painful. It's the one thing Dan kept closer to his heart all this time, the memory of Finns' smile. And not because somewhere between being a moody cunt and a mouthy ass he's actually a romantic, but because it sooths him. It still does. So he kept it there all this time, untainted, separated from all the bad stuff, and he's frankly surprised to see that even as Finns looks like he’s about to drop dead at any minute, his smile is still exactly the same - surprised and devastated. Memories are a dangerous thing.

Daniel wants to get up and leave but he can't and he doesn't. Certain things never change, he guesses, even when you think you’re over and done with them. He's attracted to Finns' misery like a moth is drawn to the flames. 

“So…” Finnan starts, apparently drowning from the lack of sound. “How are you?”

“Where have you been?” Daniel asks, blunt like a shot to the head.

“Ah,” Finns says, nodding his head once. “So we’re going straight into that.”

“Were you expecting amenities? Geez, Finns, you look great. Have you been working out? How’s your mom? Loved the hair.” He’s very much aware he sounds just as bitter as he feels, and that Finns looks too much like a scared deer for him to bring out the big guns like this. But he’s been waiting for three years. He can’t wait anymore.

Finnan presses his lips into a straight, firm line, and looks down at his own hands. “I was rehearsing for the small-talk first, that’s all.”

“There is no small talk between us, Finns. Only big ones.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees, slumping back in his seat. “I’ve been to lots of places, none long enough to be specific. I don’t even remember all of them. That’s your first answer.”

“I tried to find you, you know. I looked for you everywhere. I sent you e-mails, left you dozens of voice messages until your phone got disconnected. I even wrote to that flat you had in Dublin.”

“I sold that flat.”

“I know that, I met the new guy. He looks nice, by the way.”

“You went to Ireland?”

“Yes, I fucking did, Steve. I went to your mother’s house _and_ your father’s. He has a new wife who’s maybe about your age, did you know that?”

He arches his eyebrows in surprise. “I - didn’t, actually.”

“The last bit of information I got about you was that you were supposedly going back home, but you never showed up,” Dan just keeps going. “No one had a clue of your whereabouts.”

“That would be because I didn’t tell anyone where I was.”

“That much I figured. The question here is why.”

“And the answer is very obvious. I didn’t want to be found.”

Daniel dredges up a laugh. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”

Finns shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

“You’re not even going to try to explain yourself?”

“I don’t have explanations to give, Dan. Things are what they are. I disappeared because I didn’t want to be found. By _you_. I got your e-mails, I listened to your messages and I knew that if I told anyone where I was, eventually you would find me. So I didn’t. And it’s not like they cared a whole lot about it anyway. I don't make money anymore, I've quit being interesting to my parents.”

Daniel considers this. “Would it be so terrible if I found you?”

“Yes,” Finns says, calmly. “It would be terrible for you.”

“But you’re here now.”

He tips his head to one side a little. “I am, indeed,” he says, like he’s just as amazed by that fact as Daniel.

“Why?”

Finns’ eyes flicker away from him, to the pub full of quaint-looking and half-drunk people around them, the place that used to be their second home, and back again. “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. I called you three times before I managed to even say anything. I was here, so that was one thing. It felt weird to be here and not, you know. See you. It's the first time I've come back to Liverpool since I left. And, I guess…” He bites the inside of his lips, the creases between his eyebrows deeper than ever, making him look very thoughtful. “I guess all the effort of the last few years, to stay away and leave you alone - I just wanted to know if it paid off. I wanted to see how you were doing. Actually, I wanted to know that you were fine. And you are. You’re great, you’re… Beautiful.” He smiles again. That goddamned smile. 

“I never asked to be left alone, Finns.”

“You weren’t alone.”

“Oh, you mean the great support I had from Stevie? Xabi? Pepe called me once a month. Carra was the only familiar face in Scotland. It’s the same as being alone.”

Finns looks away. “I know.”

“So why did you leave me?” he asks, words like broken glass in his mouth. It’s the core of all things, that question - or rather, the answer to it. Everything else he can think of, everything he’s feeling and has felt for the past three years - all the drunken, miserable nights, all those layers of utter unhappiness he’s been buried underneath - it all tracks back to that question. To that point in time when Finns decided to leave him.

Daniel holds his breath; actually he seems to have been holding it ever since Finns packed his bags in that hotel room and walked away. He’s not sure he’s breathed properly since then. There’s always something stuck somewhere, like a pair of very strong arms pulling his head down under the water whenever he tries to resurface. 

For some reason, the thought of Fernando crosses his mind, but only briefly, and soon it’s gone, swept away to that corner of his skull where he keeps all the things he cannot make sense of and that are just seemingly irrelevant right now.

“Because,” Finns begins. “You are much better off without me, Daniel, and I thought you would’ve understood that by now. It’s pretty obvious.”

Daniel snorts derisively. “Such a selfless soul, aren’t you? Always thinking about the others’ well-being.”

“Not really. Not at all, in fact. But sometimes even I get things right.” Finns makes a pause. “You’re not going to convince me I was wrong, Dan, because it’s just not true. I’m looking at you right now and I’m seeing the confirmation of that.”

“Don’t act like you know what my life’s been like, Steve. You weren’t around to see what I went through at that clinic, the hell that was coming back, how fucking impossibly hard it is, to this day, to cope with everything.” Daniel didn’t realize, but as he spoke, his tone of voice escalated ‘till the point he was nearly shouting, his body naturally leaning forward to make him sound even more emphatic. If this kind of thing wasn’t so normal around this pub, or if people in here weren’t always so glazed over, they’d all be staring at the two of them by now.

Finnan, however, doesn’t seem at all affected by his gradually aggravating indignation, irresolute in his impassiveness. 

“How many times have you OD’ed since then?” He asks, flatly.

“That’s not -” 

“But it is, Daniel. It’s the point, it makes sense, it’s important, whatever it is you were going to say. How many times have you gone back to rehab? How many gigs and professional appointments have you missed? You have a new record out, you’re doing gigs everywhere, I heard you were in Spain earlier this month for a huge concert. You were always going to go through hell, with or without me. The difference is that without me you actually got over hell. Hell is gone, it’s behind you. With me… I’m not sure what would’ve happened to you.”

“How can you talk about this like you don’t even give a shit?”

"Because I give a lot of shit.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

Finns inhales, exhaustion evident on the corner of his eyes and the line of his lips. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Then why did you come here at all?”

“Because I thought you needed to hear the truth. It took me a long time to accept it, but I finally did. And it’s about time you do too.”

It’s quite true Daniel didn’t have a clear idea of how this conversation was supposed to go, but it was certainly nothing close to this. Finns is… Well, he’s still in there, somewhere, but he’s different. He’s comfortable in his misery, probably learned how to take some kind of solace from it. Completely resigned to the fact his life took on a turn to the worst and that he’s been rolling down that hill ever since. 

Surprisingly, he looks much more at peace with himself and his life than Daniel’s ever been. And that is probably what’s making Daniel so shocked. Not the state Finns is in, not the way he looks much older than he is or how he sounds like he’s half buried already, but the fact he’s fine with all of this rather than desperate or scared. He’s got the serenity of a monk. Frankly, it’s taking a lot for Daniel not to jump over the table and shake him so hard until he either breaks down or snaps out of it. It’s fucking mental. 

“Anyway,” Finns continues. “I just wanted to make sure you were fine.”

“I’m not fine, Finns.”

“You should give yourself more credit, Dan. You look great.” A rueful smile tugs on the Irishman’s lips. “I have to go now.”

“Where?”

He shrugs. “Back to the hotel.”

“The shithole?”

Finns lets out a quick bark of a laughter. “We get what we can.”

“Stay with me,” Daniel blurts out before he even realizes what he’s saying. It’s only when he sees the little look of shock on Finns’ face that it downs on him how desperate he must’ve sounded. But also how much he means it. “Come home with me,” he repeats, with more intent and less desperation now.

“Dan…” 

“I can’t let you out of my sight just yet,” he explains, bashfully. “I know you think I’m stupid, but… I need some time to process this. All of this. I'm not... done. Not yet. And I can’t let you disappear again just yet. I won't forgive myself if you do.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because we have too much history, Dan. And I’m afraid I’ll only disappoint you further.”

Daniel shakes his head with determination. “You won’t. Doesn’t matter. I don’t know. Fuck it, Finns. Just let me do something for you, ok? There’s no way in this world that I’m just gonna let you stay at some filthy hotel while you’re here.”

Finns considers this for a moment, biting his lips. His teeth look yellow-ish, although his lips look just as sultry as they always have. Daniel had a real thing for Finns’ mouth back then. He wonders how many people have had a taste of those lips since he last kissed them. 

“I’m not sure, Dan. I fit a lot better in a dump then I do at a proper house these days.”

He rolls his eyes and decides to take a tad more aggressive approach. Standing to his feet, Daniel walks around the table and stretches out a hand to Steve. The Irishman looks at his palm, then back up at him, but Dan can tell his uncertainty is starting to give. “Come on,” Daniel says.

“Dan -”

“Finns.”

Finnan closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath and stands up. He doesn’t take Dan's hand, which seems a little harsh, but he does say, “All right. I need to go get my stuff though," and Daniel's fine with that. It's good enough for now.

“I’ll drive you," he offers.

“It’s a real dump," Finns replies, warningly.

“Dumps don’t scare me.”

“I mean, it’s… You know what? Fine. You'll see for yourself.”

Daniel smiles at him for the first time tonight. It seems to connect to something inside of Finns as well, ‘cause when he returns the gesture, all shadows of doubt are suddenly wiped away.

“Let’s go, then,” Steve says, and leads the way outside.

x-x-x

_**Three years earlier…** _

 

Daniel is taking his time this morning. Usually, he's so eager to get the drug in he'd swallow it if he could. It's why his veins are all fucked up, he doesn't really care about getting it done _right_ , it's all about getting it done _fast_. Finns keeps warning him about it, says _'You're gonna lose an arm one of these days'_. Between losing a limb and losing his mind, he'd take the first all day. 

Today's dose has to be perfect, though. It might very well be his last, at least in a very long time. He has to prepare it carefully, apply it with ease and savor that feeling of perfect completeness. He has no idea when he’ll be able to feel it again, but he is damn sure it will nearly kill him to stay without it.

It’s not like he is proud of his condition - which, he isn't. No one's proud to be an addict, of knowing they can’t live without those needles. Daniel doesn't get off seeing how his arms look like they are about to fall off. In his few moments of sobriety (fewer with each passing week), before the need to have something becomes so overwhelming it starts messing with his head, Daniel realizes he's ruining his life. But he is long done with fighting it as well. He's tried it before, it didn't work and it only made him more miserable. That's the only way he knows to be happy - or to stay at peace with himself, anyway. The only time his life makes any sense is when he's high. He is what he is, end of. It’s a bit - ok, a _lot_ \- of an attitude for someone who’s been causing so much trouble, but, well… Talented musicians come with a price.

When he finally gets down to the lobby, carrying his bag on his shoulders, Daniel is still feeling the buzz of the heroin and the coke, one complimenting the other, that rush of blood pumping manically through his veins, making his heart beat fast enough that it becomes impossible to differentiate nervousness from ecstasy. It's also a form of encouragement; Daniel’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to walk out of this hotel with Jamie if he hadn’t taken his very own kind of medicine to help along.

He finds his executioner sitting on a chair by the reception, trying to do keepy-uppies with an orange without standing up. He’s doing ok, actually. Jamie and Stevie both had brief passages through Liverpool’s academy. If there’s any truth in what Carra says, they were quite decent and highly regarded as future prospects at the club - especially Stevie, according to Carra. But neither of them could deal with the missionary life of a professional footballer: no late night partying, no booze, stupid diets, no sex before matches, waking up at 5am every morning, training hard every day, and so on and so forth. So they quit football to lead the kind of life that preaches the exact opposite: they started a band.

Carra was actually their bassist, originally. But soon enough it became obvious that, albeit being very dedicated, maybe the most dedicated out of all of them, he wasn’t exactly ace. And his managerial skills were way too good to be wasted. That’s when in walked the Danish exchange student. 

Daniel was on his first year of Architecture at the University of Liverpool when he met this guy named Harry, an art major who was seeing Xabi at the time. Xabi knew Pepe, Pepe knew Stevie… One thing leads to another, eventually he ended up in a flat that belonged to this crazy Polish bloke named Dudek playing bass for the The Red Kop.

Exactly one year later, Daniel quit university. Now here he is, still not a millionaire and on his way to rehab. That went well, then. 

His mother would smack him so hard if she knew… She was never on board with the whole band thing. ‘ _It will be the death of you, Daniel_!’ she said - through the phone, of course, because he didn’t have the courage to go home and announce it in person that he was quitting school. ‘ _I didn’t raise you like that! Don’t come running back home afterwards, I am warning you! Nothing good comes out of that kind of life style, you’ll waste your life and your talent! Study, Daniel, study! That’s what makes a real man!_ ’ 

He hasn’t gone back home since, hasn’t really spoken to his parents either. It’s mostly his sister he keeps in touch with, and how he knows what’s going on back in Copenhagen. She's got no clue what's up with his life, though, poor thing. He'd rather not worry her or end up as the object of a family intervention. A band intervention is bad enough, but a family one is just... Hell. Pure and simple. Daniel would frankly rather stay at rehab for a whole year than be shipped back to Denmark.

His conversations with his mother suddenly spring back to mind. It's that thing where stuff come back to bite you in the ass for being such an arrogant brat. Back then, he’d laughed off her pessimism about his future. She’s old, she doesn’t know what she’s saying, he thought. Yes, he had a talent for drawings, but he was also a very good bassist, thank you very much. And being in a band was way more exciting than sitting in an office all day, outlining constructions. One day, Daniel concluded, she will be proud of me.

It's ironic now, because that day has never seemed further away.

He takes a deep breath, fixes the strap of the bag over his shoulder and approaches Carra.

The moment Jamie notices him, he loses concentration on his keepy-uppy and the orange rolls off of his foot to vanish somewhere underneath a couch on the other side of the reception.

“I’m here,” he announces, coming to a stop next to him. “You can take me now, officer.”

“Good,” Jamie says, jumping to his feet and picking up his own suitcase from the floor. “Taxi is waiting outside.”

“Aren’t we going to wait for Finns? Where is he, by the way? His stuff was gone when I woke up. I thought he’d be here with you. Did he go out to grab a bite or something?”

Jamie stares at him for long seconds, deadpanned, before dropping his suitcase and exhaling wearily. “Oh, fuck,” me mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“He didn’t tell you, did he? That fucking knobhead.” Jamie shakes his head.

“Tell me what?”

“Daniel,” the Scouser starts, stops, licks his lips, and then forges on. “Finns is not coming with us.”

There’s a pause. “What?”

“He’s not going to Scotland.”

Daniel studies him for a moment, the weariness on his features, the dark shades under his eyes, like he barely had them shut the night before. Daniel wouldn’t have either, but he was knocked out by some sleeping pills. Hence why he didn’t hear when Finns left.

Jamie’s dead serious, and the tone of his voice is the one he uses when he means to be comprehensive, but… What he’s saying doesn’t make any sense.

“What are you even talking about, Carra? Of course he’s going,” Daniel says, calmly. “He told me last night.”

“Did he? Did he actually say, with those words, ‘I am going with you to rehab’?”

“Not with those words, but…” The moment he tries to recall the exact phrasing Finns used to confirm he’d be joining them in Scotland, his memory seems to blank out.

 

_“What did you tell them?” Finns asks, sitting next to him on the bed and placing one comforting hand on Daniel’s thigh. The Dane can’t seem to look up at his boyfriend, so instead he covers his hand with his own and focuses on staring at his long and calloused bassist fingers against Finns’ slender and more delicate ones._

_“They didn’t give me much of a choice. It was either taking it or losing everything."_

_Finns pauses. “Good.”_

_“When do we leave?”_

_Another pause, longer this time. “Tomorrow morning. First thing.”_

_“Damn.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_He squeezes Finns’ hand lightly. “I’m not sure I can do it.”_

_“Of course you can.”_

_He laughs ruefully, because Finns is definitely not the person to be sounding so reassuring about this. Not when he used to call him every day, crying like a little baby, during his first week at rehab. “You couldn’t,” Daniel points out simply._

_Stephen takes his hand away and uses one finger to lift Dan’s chin and turn his face to the side so that he has to look him in the eye. “I’m a wanker, Daniel. Don’t compare yourself to me. You’re much stronger than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”_

_“I’m not.”_

_“Yes, you are. This seems hard, but it’s a good chance. You can’t let your talent go to waste; you deserve to have the world at your feet. Besides… You don’t really have anywhere else to go, do you?”_

_That part is a bit painful, but it’s also true. He’s sacrificed everything to be in this band. Family, friends… All he has are three band mates - one of which is a cunt - and Finns._

_“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”_

_“All you have to do is not let me.”_

_Finns draws in a breath, and grins at him. “I want you to promise.”_

_“Fine. I promise.”_

_“Good.” He places a quick kiss on Dan's lips. “Now let’s start packing. This room looks like there’s been a fucking war in here and I can’t afford to pay if they charge me extras.”_

 

Daniel was 100% certain Finns had said it, that he’d told him they’d be going together - until now. _I am going with you, Daniel_. He can’t remember those words anymore. But they were right there! How can it be?

It’s with his heart drumming like a runaway train that it finally dawns on him. He can't remember it because Finns never said it.

Something snaps inside of him. It’s as if someone suddenly pulled the plug on the good buzz only for Daniel to be immediately washed over by a brand new wave of fear.

Jamie patiently waits for him to put the pieces together. Daniel looks back at him with a silent plea. This can’t be true. It just can’t.

“He wouldn’t do this,” Daniel says after what feels like hours of playing the previous day over and over in his mind. “He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I tried reasoning with him, he wouldn’t have it. He told me he wasn’t going. And he asked me not to tell you or the others anything because he wanted to do it himself.”

Daniel feels his knees trembling under his weight, and soon the shakiness radiates to the rest of his body. His mouth hangs a little open, partially because he wants to speak and can’t find the words, part because it’s getting harder to breathe. His head is positively spinning around and he’s getting really dizzy.

 _This cannot be happening_ , is the only thing he can make out of the myriad of thoughts rushing through his brain.

His bag falls off his shoulder, and he almost collapses along with it. 

“Daniel,” Jamie says, taking a step closer. “Are you ok?”

What kind of stupid question is that? 

Of course he’s not ok. Can’t he fucking _see it_? 

Daniel turns around on his heels, looking for… something. Anything. He doesn’t know what. Maybe Finns, maybe an escape. He finds a mirror, though, on the wall behind the reception desk. His face is pale like a ghost’s. 

He’s in panic, just one tiny straw away from the break point.

“I can’t,” he speaks in short bursts, totally out of breath. “I can’t go. I can’t do it, I can’t go. I’m not going. I’m not -”

“Dan,” Jamie grabs his arms and shifts him towards him, forcing Daniel to look straight into his eyes with an undisguised expression of hurt. Things stop twisting and spinning around the Dane for a second. “Don’t go there, don’t start freaking out now. You _can_ go, and you _will_.”

“I can’t,” he shakes his head helplessly. “I can’t, Jamie, can’t you see? I never wanted to go, but I thought… I thought Finns, I thought he… I can’t do it without him.” 

“Stop saying that, Daniel, you’re not going to bloody prison. And you do not depend on that motherfucker either.”

“You’re lying!” he yells, not even caring that he’s in the middle of the hotel, and tries to break away, but Carra grabs him harder and keeps him steady in his place. “I don’t believe you, you’re a fucking liar! Steve wouldn’t leave me, you know that! He’d never do that to me! You sent him off and now you’re lying to me! I know you don’t like him, you never did! Stevie made it clear he wanted us both out of here yesterday, I should’ve known you’d do that! You are all a bunch of fucking cunts and I hate you!”

“Stop acting like a fucking child!” Carra bellows back, shaking him once to get him to snap out of his rage attack. “No one kicked him out. I told him exactly the same thing the lads told you, and he didn’t take it! I love Finns, Daniel, but right now I fucking hate his guts. He dragged you into this and he didn’t even have the decency to own up to it!” The Scouser takes a break, looks away, then back again. “I’ve known Steve my whole life,” he starts once more, this time with a heaviness on his tone that it’s almost as though it pains him to talk. “I didn’t want him out, I wanted him _back_. But he’s not my son, I can’t make him do anything he doesn't to. He chose to go and I had to let him. Don’t make me do the same thing to you.”

Daniel never knew what a heart breaking felt like, but he guesses it’s exactly what he feels right about now. It’s actually physically painful, piece by piece being ripped apart. The only thing stopping him from shattering into a million little shivering bits is Carra, holding him up straight. The Dane shuts his eyes closed for a fraction as the world turns too fast and disappears from under his feet. When he eventually opens them back, he feels his eyelashes wet, though his cheeks are still dry.

“Why would he do that to me?” he whispers. “He wouldn’t… He can’t…” Dan stops talking and swallows down hard, a weird, acrid taste in his mouth, a mix of disappointment and bile, and when he speaks again, it’s with a harsh sense of definitiveness that sends a pang straight to his heart. “He... left me.”

“He’s a coward, Dan. He’s just a fucking coward. But you don’t have to be one as well. You’re young and talented and you’re throwing your life away. You think what you do or don’t do is none of our business but you’re wrong. We’re involved now. Whatever happens to you, it’s on us as well. It affects all of us. It would be just too easy to send you out on your way and get some other lad to play bass for us, but we don’t want some other lad - _I_ don’t want anybody else, I want you. So, just… Fuck him. Fuck Steve, ok? I know it’s hard -”

“Do you?” Dan stops him, voice trembling with anger. “Do you really? Because you haven’t got a fucking clue, Jamie. You don’t know how I feel right now. Knowing that I’ll be locked in some crazy clinic with a bunch of other buggered up people for six months, far away from everything that gives any fucking meaning to my life, would be hard enough without my… Without Finns. I can’t… I can’t process all of this. It’s too much, I’m… I’m gonna lose it.” His voice builds up during his speech and by the time he breaks it off, it’s already tearing on a sob.

Daniel is not a crier. He doesn’t cry. Especially not in front of other people. But this is too much and he can’t handle it. He feels his face wet and warm and his voice is gone. 

He can’t do this. 

“You’re right,” Carra says, raising a hand to his face and wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “I don't know what you're feeling like right now. But I do know what it's like to be scared. I was scared when I thought we'd lose you to an overdose. When I saw you at the hospital, all those tubes down your throat, I was scared. Just as you are now. And right this moment, seeing you like this, all messed up - it's hard, Daniel. I’m pissed off at you and I was this close from punching you yesterday, but…” He sighs. “The last thing Finns said to me was… He asked me to take care of you. He’s a bloody arsehole, but I intend to grant him his wish. I’ll take care of you and you’re going to be just fine. Ok?”

It’s not ok, Daniel thinks. _I’m not ok_. Nothing is fucking ok and right now he’s not sure it will ever be, ever again. His life has been pointing towards a crappy outcome for months now, years maybe, but he never thought it would go down so fast. When one thing crumbles down, the rest just follows through. Like a bloody card castle. 

Daniel doesn’t think he’s capable of doing anything right now. Not staying, not going, not running away. He’s never felt this lost in his entire life and it’s frightening in a manner he never imagined anything could ever be. He’s never been afraid of anything until now, he realizes. Not even after a near-death by overdose. Life is much scarier than death. And this, right here, is what real, paralyzing fear actually feels like.

Finns is gone. His career is likely finished. He’s got nowhere to go. It’s that point where you can’t go back but can’t quite move forward either. So instead, he nods his head and allows Carra to take the wheel.

“Good,” Jamie says, squeezing his arm one more time before letting go and grabbing both his and Daniel’s bags. “Let’s go, then, or we’ll miss the flight.”

He accompanies Carragher to a cab outside much like a zombie would. His body is moving out of its own will, but his head is somewhere else entirely. As soon as they are both inside and Jamie’s given the driver the directions to the airport, Daniel fishes out his mobile from his jacket pocket.

“ _Hey, you've reached Steve Finnan. Leave your message after the bip_.”

He tries again.

“ _Hey, you've reached Steve Finnan. Leave your message after the bip_.”

And again.

“ _Hey, you've reached -_ ”

The end. He's reached the end.

He turns the phone off and puts it back in his jacket.

“Just so you know,” Carra starts. Daniel turns to look at him, but he’s casually staring out the window, his face set into determination. “If I ever see Steve again, I’ll beat seven kinds of crap out of him. I'll make sure to send your regards.”

Neither of them says another word.

 

x-x-x

 

When they stop in front of the hotel, Finns doesn’t even wait until the car's off to jump out. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he announces, rushing to the entrance. 

It's quite clear that Finns does not want to be followed and, in spite of having his curiosity piqued, Daniel decides to respect his wishes. Still, he gets out of the car to take a good look around the place. At first sight, there's nothing particularly arresting about it. It’s just a very old, very dirty, very low-profile side-of-the-road type of place where people stop by to take a nap for thirty minutes on their way to somewhere else. It does look pretty dire, and also like it might have bed bugs, but not very far from all the other cheap motels Daniel's seen in his life. 

The first thought to cross his mind is 'I'd hardly call this a _hotel_ '. Daniel wonders how much of a snob he's turned into in the past few years. And, consequently, just exactly how big is the gap between him and Finns right now. Back when they used to be familiar to each other, Dan wouldn't mind a dumpster like this. Now, however, if he's completely honest, he might get a little irked just thinking of the possibility. 

But even so - sure, it’s probably not at all flattering to be staying over here, no one’s going to go bragging about it, but why would Finns not want him to even see the place? Not as if the man is looking any dapper himself, anyway. And it is very unlikely that Daniel would ever get more unimpressed by his lodgings than he was by Finns' appearance.

As he stands there wondering, Daniel notices a bit of movement to the side of the building, where he assumes is the parking lot - skeevy places such as this one always have their parking spaces as hidden from the passers-by as possible. Taking a few steps closer for better view, he spots a person standing behind a tall tree. A man, randomly standing there, leaning against the wall. Another step to the side and it finally becomes clear what exactly he is doing.

On her knees, between the legs of the man, there’s a woman. Even from a distance Daniel can see her buttocks showing from under her short skirt and the side of her breasts, covered by nothing but her long hair falling over it.

The first thing to cross Dan’s mind is that it’s a cold night in Liverpool, as most nights are, and this woman is wearing nothing but a belt-length skirt. The second thing comes with the realization of what it means.

Somewhere deep inside a little voice screams that he shouldn’t be staring at those people. It’s rude and possibly dangerous. He could get in trouble if they see him and he’s not exactly hidden there. But he can’t take his eyes away, can’t move. There’s something hypnotizing about the bobbing rhythm of the girls’ head against the man’s crotch, or in the way the bloke arches his back and grabs a strands of her hair, pulling on it not at all gently. 

“Hey, pretty boy,” a throaty voice pulls him out of his absorption. Daniel turns to find a blond haired woman - no, a _girl_ , she’s probably younger than him, even though she sounds like she’s 60 - wearing clothes that are nearly as revealing as the ones barely covering the woman on the parking lot. Short skirt, tank top, pair of white boots, cheap, smudged make up. The cigarette between her fingers is probably the only thing keeping her warm. Daniel looks at her in terror, but she opens a large gap-toothed smile at him. “Looking for something?”

Daniel opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He feels stupid. Like he’s 14 again and straying away from home with his school mates to check out the brothels on the outskirts of Copenhagen. But he knows it’s not the girls or what they’re doing that is shocking the speech out of him; it’s the fact that Finns is staying at that place.

“Lost your tongue?” The girl giggles and takes a long drag of her smoke. “I can help you find it.” 

She approaches him coyly, moving in a way that is probably meant to be sexy but that, to Daniel, looks nothing but pitifully clumsy. She’s drunk, too; he smell her breath from a distance. Possibly high on some shit or another too. When she’s close enough, she stretches out her hand and touches his crotch, pressing her fingers on his jeans. She giggles again. “Pretty _and_ big, huh? That’s my favor -”

“Get off me,” he slurs, and jumps back. 

The girl raises her palms in the air apologetically. “Sorry, mate,” she says. “Just trying to help you relax. You looked like you were enjoying what you were seeing over there.”

“Hey, I’m…” Finns cuts in, announcing he’s arrival. Daniel turns to him as he stops a few feet away, a small bag hanging on his shoulder. The grin on the other man’s face slowly fades as he looks from Dan to his company and realizes what just happened. “Oh,” is all he says.

“I see,” the girl comments, sounding slightly annoyed. “You modern blokes are all into cock these days. What happened to real men? Jesus, I’m gonna run out of a job. Do him well, will you,” she tells Finns. "He's a big one. Such a shame..." The woman then starts walking towards the motel, shaking her head and mumbling until she disappears through the same front door Finns just came out of.

When Daniel looks back at the other man, he has this sheepish and apologetic expression on his face. “See, that’s why I didn’t want you to come here.”

“Did she just -" Daniel stops himself from finishing the sentence, the words stuck in his throat and refusing to come out. "You knew this place is a whorehouse?” he attempts.

“It’s not a whorehouse.”

“And why are there fucking whores offering their services around here?” Dan isn't sure whether he’s supposed to be feeling angry or betrayed or disgusted or if he should be worried and pitying Finns, but right now he feels all at the same time and the only thing he’s certain of is that he’s about to start yelling. 

“Because it’s a cheap place and cheap places like this end up having that kind of thing on the menu, if the owners make some extra on it - which, I assume, is the case here,” he explains, way too calmly for someone who just came out of a fucking whorehouse. 

The obvious question is dancing on the tip of Dan’s tongue, but it takes him a few seconds too long to get it out. He needs to know, _wants_ to know, only there's a large side of him that would rather not. “Finns,” he starts. “Are you…” he tries, but loses track of the phrasing again and doesn’t finish it. It's too fucking much.

Stephen laughs shortly - _laughs_ , as though the prospect of selling your body at dirty motels for a few quid is actually any funny. “Come on, Danny. Who do you think would pay to have sex with this?” he asks, opening his arms to better showcase his own deteriorated form.

“Finns,” Daniel admonishes. 

The Irishman takes a deep breath. “Do I look like a prostitute to you?”

“You look like a fucking junkie in a whorehouse,” he lashes out.

A look of hurt flickers across Finns’ face, but he smiles nonetheless; it’s Finns, Daniel needs to remember. You can’t wipe off that smile. He can stand before a fucking hurricane and still find some kind of beauty in the imminence of death. However, something is visibly broken in his eyes, and it immediately makes Daniel regret what he just said.

“I didn’t -”

“Yes, you did,” Finns says, evenly. “I know what I look like. You’re right. I'm shit. But I’m not. What you’re thinking, I mean. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of, but that has never been one of them. I’m not a prostitute and, believe it or not, I didn’t know what was going on in this place when I checked in. It looked pretty bad from the outside, but I don’t have money to pay for anything else, so I couldn’t exactly leave when I was approached by one of the girls. Although I have to admit a lot of things started to make sense after that.”

If he’s lying, then he’s doing it masterfully. But, again, it wouldn’t be the first time. Daniel still remembers the last time Steve lied to him like it was yesterday; his words, his voice, still rings in his head from time to time. He's good at this, bullshitting people. 

This time, however, in spite of not having any reason whatsoever to buy his crap and being definitely inclined to believe otherwise, still Finns is managing to somehow convince him he's telling the truth. Three years and a lot of heartbreak later and he still finds himself desperately wanting to trust this man. He thought he'd be vaccinated by now, but it seems he was giving himself too much credit.

“Hey,” Finns says when he remains silent, mulling the evidence over and over in his head, picturing Steve, on his knees, in front of completely gross strangers, head bobbing… _God_.

Finns touches him, just a hand on his forearm, a little squeeze that is light and yet incredibly reassuring. It flares up in Daniel’s mind that this is the first time in over three years that he’s _feeling_ Stephen. He looks down at his own arm, at where Finns’ naked hand touches his jacket, and he almost wants to cry. He still remembers what those hands feel against his skin. It’s something that’s been burned on his memory against his own wishes. Finns’ hands used to be soft, graceful and deft, they used to know every single shortcut of Daniel's body, all the right buttons to push. He loved those hands once. Now it feels like he’s being touched by a ghost or a skeleton: bony, calloused fingers with red bruises around dirty, irregular nails.

“I promise, Dan,” Finns continues, prompting him to raise his eyes to meet his. “I don’t have any reasons to lie to you right now. I didn’t expect you to forgive me anyway. And I know I look like the perfect candidate for this sort of act of desperation, but I have never, _ever_ … done that. Never.”

“Why didn’t you want me here?”

“Because I knew you’d be horrified if you found out.”

“I’m not horrified by what I’ve seen. I’m horrified by what I’m imagining.”

“Then stop imagining.” Finns lets go of his arm and Daniel feels torn between resenting him and being relieved. It’s the perfect sum-up of how this entire night has gone so far. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea.”

“I believe you,” Daniel decides, taking a leap of faith. He can deal with Finns being fucked up, but with Finns being fucked by random guys to afford his fucked-upness - that he can’t manage. Maybe he’s become too uptight, but he reckons no one would ever take it nicely, seeing someone they loved ( _still_ loves, maybe, he doesn’t know) giving blow jobs in the dead of the night for a few shoot ups. He'd like to be _sure_ , to go inside and ask the manager or the whoever if Finns is on their menu, if he's really just a guest. But it doesn't really seem like he has much of a choice here but to believe; either that or he's afraid he might scare Finns away. Definitely not an option, then. 

“I do,” he repeats, more to convince himself and shut up the riot in his head than to Steve.

“I can stay, you know,” Finns offers. “I’m sure if I tell a sad story to the manager he’ll give me back my room. It’s a good room. It’s almost not too dirty and you can barely hear a thing.”

Daniel frowns deeply at him. “Are you insane? You think I’m going to leave you here?” He snatches the bag away from Finns and stomps back to the car. “Let’s go.”

Before he can get in, though, Finns says, “Dan,” and he stops, looking back at this shadow of his old boyfriend. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now get in the car.”

Finns does, and they drive back to Daniel’s house in the most absolute silence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on fire with these updates! :) Again, this is also one of my favorite chapters. Hope you guys like it as well! It tells a bit more about Daniel and the past of The Red Kop. Please, forgive me for all the mistakes! The story hasn't been beta'ed. :(
> 
> As always, feedback is what I feed on! Please, let me know what you think!

The first thing Daniel does when he gets home is find himself something to smoke. It doesn't happen as often as before, but, at times, his mind has these lapses, forgets that his body has been completely clean for years and starts begging for... things. Whenever he gets too nervous or too anxious or too angry - there comes that uncontrollable desire for drugs that have been long wiped out of his system. Sometimes Daniel wonders if there even is such a thing is being clean. It never feels totally safe. The smallest slip is enough to drag him back. It's like he's constantly living with another being trapped inside of him, a younger version of himself, locked up in a far corner of his head, weak and powerless, but thriving in his moments of insecurity. It whispers on the back of his head - have _just a little_ , just enough to calm down, enough to feel good... That's what he used to tell himself back then, with needles stuck all over his arm. Once a junkie, always a junkie. It's why he keeps at least a pack of cigarettes in every room - it's the only thing that helps contain the needs and shut the little voice up. 

Daniel lights up the first one with shaky fingers, takes a long, hard drag, shuts his eyes for a second and allows the smoke to sink in and consume his lungs before letting it out.

Finns is standing by the entrance, his bag held close to his body like he’s afraid someone might try to take it from him. Daniel still can’t believe this is happening. Any moment now he’s going to wake up and realize it was all a dream. 

“Wow,” Finns says, wide-eyed, a sheepish grin dancing on the corner of his lips. “Your house is amazing.”

“Thanks,” Daniel replies, and motions with one hand for him to walk in. Still hesitating, Finns moves forward, glancing from one side to the other. It makes Daniel think of a child going into an amusement park for the first time. Small and frail and overwhelmed. 

Finns stops by what Pepe calls ‘the Hugh Hefner couch’: Daniel’s large, purple, impossibly soft and incredibly kinky couch. It’s the kind of furniture everyone would love to have at home, because it looks _so cool_ , but no one really does. Dan doesn’t really know what exactly about that couch screams ‘pornographic’, but there’s definitely something. It just reeks of sex. 

He's had many people on that couch, the last one being Fernando. Finns isn't amongst the couch victims; he was long gone by the time Daniel started making enough money to pay for extravagant, designer furniture. But he was the person Dan had in mind when he bought it. It's funny how he still thinks of Finns - the old Finns, his Finns - as the base for comparison to everything in his life. It's funny, except it isn't. It's actually really sad.

He watches as this new Finns - not his Finns, not the one he pictured having on that couch so many times - carefully touches the cushion before caressing it with his hand as though he's petting a dog. “I like your couch,” he says. “Wouldn’t mind sleeping here.”

Daniel huffs out an amused little laugh, but doesn’t say anything.

“You guys really made it,” Finns says, looking back at him. “You’re rich now.”

“Just a little bit.”

“A little bit rich is still rich.”

Dan shrugs, takes another long drag. His heart has gone back to beating at a reasonable rhythm.

Finns continues to explore his living room, slowly checking out every piece of furniture, every detail. As a near-architect to be, Dan likes to pride himself in his good taste. His house is rather posh for a 28 year-old single man. Expensive furniture, expensive carpets, expensive drapes, expensive objects and a few art pieces he’s quite fond of. Finns used to be familiar with his old college-student flat; small, cheap and crammed with stuff he had no idea what to do with. The two places couldn’t be more different, almost like they hadn’t belonged to the same person. Which, frankly, isn’t so far from the truth; Dan isn’t the same lad he was back then. And neither is Finns. They have both changed a lot. And neither knows anything about each other anymore. Daniel is a stranger, while Finns is a riddle. 

Finns is taking his time investigating this new version of him through the details.

“Does it bother you?” Daniel asks, blowing out the smoke. 

“What?” Finns replies, stopping by one of his paintings to take a closer look. 

“That we made it and you missed out on it.”

Finns turns to him, a little hurt from the question. He wasn’t exactly part of the band. He was Carra’s assistant slash producer, as well as Daniel’s part-time dealer, until they became attached in a more complicated fashion. But had he stayed with them, he'd obviously be making very decent money, sharing the wealth and, probably, Daniel's bed. “I try not to think about it,” he says, simply.

Daniel takes one final drag from his cigarette, throws the butt on the ashtray. “That would be all I’d think about if I were you. It’s like betting the same numbers on the lottery every week and one day finding out that on that one week you forgot, your numbers were drawn.”

He’s just being mean now, he knows. If Finns is not going to feel bad about leaving him, then maybe he will about the money. 

Finns purses his lips and continues to move. “I’ve lost worse things than money,” he retorts, casually, and stops again, this time in front of a photograph. “You have a photo of the band on display in your living room,” he states with amusement. Daniel always hated that sort of self-congratulatory memorabilia, hated staring at his own face hanging on walls. He only ever posed for commercial photos he was absolutely obliged to by contracts. That hasn't changed since the old days. 

“I blame Pepe. He gave it to me a while ago and bullied me into leaving it there.”

Finns chuckles, looking closely at the photo. It was taken maybe six months before, when they were invited to play at the Graham Norton's show. Pepe is the kind of person who likes to register all his celebrity moments and e-mail them to his mom afterwards. But for some reason he thought this was something they all should show off somewhere inside their houses. _We're famous now_ , he kept saying. _Everyone knows us_. Like that's a good enough reason to start getting sentimental about photographs. 

They kinda do look good there, Daniel has to admit. He’s standing so close to Stevie you can barely tell they hate each other.

“What happened to Xabi?” 

“He quit.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know the details. When I got back, he wasn’t here anymore. But if I had to guess, I’d say his ego grew larger than the city could endure.”

“I was going to say ‘geez’, but I’m actually not that surprised.”

“Everyone knew Xabi was an ass on the making.”

“Everyone but Stevie,” Finns points out. “How did he take it?”

Daniel shrugs nonchalantly. “Like the fucker that he is, I guess. I wasn’t here for the worst part, but Carra said he was pretty awful. The world’s greatest prick, he said.”

“Stole your title, did he?” Finns smirks at him. The absolute cheek of the bastard. “Where is Xabi now?”

“Madrid. He produces and represents some artists for a record label there. Probably fucks them as well.”

“That’s our Xabi.”

For most of the time Daniel knew Xabi, he was with Stevie. But when he first met the Spaniard, he was still going out with Harry Kewell, who Daniel had been friends with in college and who introduced him to the rest of the guys on The Red Kop. Then Xabi started going out with Harry _and_ Stevie, before calling it off with the Australian to, presumably, hit it off with Stevie as his full-time boyfriend. But Daniel is pretty sure he saw Xabi exchanging a bit of saliva with Harry at least twice after that, so he wouldn’t go as far as to say Fernando was the first Spaniard to cuckold Stevie. Although he’d be totally fine with that as well.

“Who’s this?” Finns asks, pointing a finger at their newest band member. Daniel takes a moment to analyze Fernando on the photograph in a way he’s never done before. He looks stunning. Totally immerse in his moment, like there’s nothing else around him but music. Fernando’s a handsome guy, but Daniel thinks he looks every shade of gorgeous when he’s up on stage; he glows. It's a testament to how fucked up this thing between them might be that he's starting to see Fernando in a completely new light even when staring at a photograph that's been sitting in his living room for months.

He must be pretty obvious about his thoughts too, because when he turns to Finns, he finds the man staring at him with a speculative gleam in his eyes and a funny quirk on his lips. 

Daniel looks away, very grateful that he doesn’t blush. “That’s Fernando,” he replies, trying to keep his tone as unaffected as possible. “Xabi’s replacement.”

“Fernando, huh?” Finns repeats, forcing the accent. “Another Spaniard?”

“Seems like that’s all we get around Liverpool.”

“So are you seeing him?”

Daniel makes a scene of frowning in a most indignant manner. “Why are you asking that?”

Finns rolls his eyes. “Oh, quit it, Danny. You’re still a terrible liar. I noticed the way you looked at him on that photo, and the way you said his name… You like him.”

“There was nothing weird about my intonation, you can't possibly deduce from two sentences."

“But I'm right, aren't I?"

Dan snorts, facing away from Finns. You’d think that three years and a lot of resentment later he would’ve learned how to lie to Stephen Finnan. 

“We’ve been… _dabbling_ ,” he admits.

“Dabbling?”

“Well, officially, he’s Stevie’s boyfriend. But off the record…” he trails off and can’t help the smirk spreading across his lips.

Finns’ eyes widen in shock. “You are screwing Stevie’s boyfriend?”

“Well…” he shrugs. Not that he doesn’t like Fernando individually, but he’d be bluffing if he said that the part where he is Stevie’s lad doesn’t make it much better.

“ _Daniel Agger_!” Finns says half-way between being amused and scandalized. “That is positively _outrageous_.”

“Then why does it sound like you’re congratulating me?”

“Because I am!” Finns chuckles. “But it’s so _reckless_!”

“Not really.”

“Stevie will skin you alive if he finds out.”

Daniel huffs out in defiance. “He could certainly try.”

The sound of Finnan’s laughter sends a little shiver up Daniel’s spine, but it’s a good kind of tingling. It sounds so much weaker and hoarser than it did back then, when he’d laugh outright and ridiculously loud, enough to fill an entire room. It was how Finns used to be - larger than life. Reckless, outrageous… Those were all his adjectives. Maybe, Daniel thinks, Finns has rubbed off on him more than he imagined.

“Remember when you made out with Stevie?” Finns asks, beaming at him.

“Oh, God,” Daniel grumbles, face crumpling up in an ugly grimace. “Why do you have to remind me of that?”

“It’s a good story!” The Irishman bumps his shoulder lightly against Dan’s. “It’s even better now that you’re doing his boyfriend.”

“I had completely erased that off my mind. Thanks for bringing it back up.”

Daniel hadn’t thought of that night with Stevie in ages. They never, ever spoke about it, ever again. It seems like a completely absurd idea nowadays; just the mere thought makes Daniel want to throw up. But back then he wasn’t so fervently against it. Gerrard is a good looking lad, he’ll give him that. Not that Daniel will ever admit it to another living soul.

"Where was it again? Dudek's?"

Daniel hesitates for a moment, considers not indulging him, and then says, "Harry's."

"Right, Harry's!" Finns smiles at him, so genuine and fond it's hard for Daniel not to smile back. "Dudek's the one who showed up with the weed and ruined the rehearsals."

Daniel doesn’t remember a lot from that night, thank God, but he does know that, at some point, for some reason, he ended up in Harry’s room with Stevie, and soon enough they started furiously making out. They were half-way through getting undressed when Daniel’s memory blanks out. He assumes they both passed out, or something, which is the only thing that can possibly be more embarrassing than actually going to bed with Stevie - passing out in bed with him, without even having sex with the guy. Next thing he remembers, he woke up with his hands well tucked inside their vocalists’ pants.

If Stevie remembers anything else about it, he never said a thing.

“It’s weird to think that you’ve felt him up,” Finns continues, eyes unfocused and distant, like he’s lost in memories of the good old days before overdoses and rehab.

“And that’s how I know there’s nothing _great_ about him, but you really don’t have to mention it.”

“Come on, Dan… I’ve seen it. Stevie’s quite all right.”

“ _All right_ is not _great_ ,” he points out, petulantly.

“Have you discussed this with his boyfriend?”

“Ha!” he says, feigning a laugh. “Fernando is a total prude. He’d be perplexed by the thought of introducing Stevie’s dick in a conversation.” 

Finns shakes his head helplessly. “You two were always measuring up your cocks.”

“I’ve never measured his cock. Jesus.”

“It’s a metaphor, Dan. You two never got along. It was like there were too many alpha-males for one band.”

Now that is true. Even when they were still in good terms, so long ago Daniel barely remembers what it felt like to not hate Stevie, they were always bickering and picking up little petty arguments. Stevie liked red, Daniel preferred blue; Stevie wanted Thai food, Daniel wanted Chinese; Stevie was a dog person, Daniel used to have a cat. They are just complete opposites in every department - except, apparently, when it comes to Fernando. 

But things weren’t always so unmanageable. 

“It got worse,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “After you left. My relationship with Stevie went downhill. We can barely speak two words to each other without fighting.” He takes a pause, feeling as something suddenly changes and the atmosphere becomes loaded again. The friendly break is over. “I always blamed him for what happened to you,” Dan explains, head hung down as he gazes at the spot of grey carpet between his feet. “I never believed what Jamie told me, that you chose to walk out. I knew Stevie didn’t want you around.”

“Why would you think that?” 

“I just know. The way he spoke to me that day… It just seemed like keeping us around wasn’t his choice, he was just defeated by the others. And I heard him once or twice, when I was in the hospital, saying that it was your fault I overdosed.”

“We were all a bit out of ourselves that day, Dan. Stevie was just worried about you, same as everyone else.”

“No, he was blaming _you_ ,” he lifts his head. 

“Because that’s what you do when something bad happens and it scares you. You find something to put the blame on.” 

“He said you were responsible for everything and you should get out of my life. Our lives. He didn’t want you around the band anymore. He’s an ungrateful bastard.”

“And he was right after all,” Finns says, not altering his tone of voice, but carrying utmost certainty. “I dragged you into it. And they never made me leave. I went away because I wanted to. You’re hating on the wrong person.”

Dan has to swallow around the thick lump in his throat. “So what you’re saying is that you could quit me, but you couldn’t quit the drugs.”

“What I’m saying is that I had to quit you _because_ I couldn’t quit the drugs,” he explains. “You almost died, Daniel, and it was all because of me. How do you think I felt when you were in that hospital? I just… I went to the rooftop of that building several times. And I probably wouldn’t have come down using the stairs if something had happened to you. It was _my_ fault,” he points a finger to his own chest. “Only mine. And even as desperate as I was, when you got out, nothing changed. Everything continued exactly how it was before you OD’ed because I could never say no to you. You cried and begged for another dose and I always gave it to you. I was terrified, but I did nothing to stop. I sat down beside you as you stuffed your face with coke, and never once did I try to stop you. Hell, I was just as crazy as you half the time. If losing you couldn’t fix me, then I just knew nothing else would. If I had gone to rehab, I would’ve tried to run away, probably would’ve escaped. And you would end up following me.”

“You didn’t even try,” Daniel sputters, teeth clenched.

“You don’t have to put your hand in the boiling water to know it will burn you.” Finns stops, scratches the back of his head, and continues. “My life is just… wrong. It’s always been. Even before you. It’s just an appalling collection of failure, over failure, over failure… One bad decision hinging on to the next. But that - leaving you - was the rightest thing I’ve ever done. I already told you that. I’m not saying it was easy. _Hell_ , it was… It was nearly impossible. Taking my stuff, leaving that hotel, with you there, asleep… God…” He shakes his head, like the memory is as fresh as yesterday’s in his head. The only thing Dan remembers is waking up to an empty room when he had gone to bed with someone else next to him. “I think about that every day.”

“And thinking about it makes it all right, huh?” he asks, bitterness bleeding out again. “You are so full of heroism, but you haven’t got a clue of what it felt like for me, Finns.”

“Well… If what it felt like for _me_ is any indication, then I think I have an idea. But you survived, didn’t you? You are stronger than you think. I told you that before I left, you just didn’t listen to me.”

“I was stronger _with_ you.”

Finns shakes his head with determination. “No. See? That’s where you’re wrong. You’re so wrong, Dan. You were _weaker_ with me. Weaker _and_ deader. Being a junkie is no sign of strength, quite the opposite. Look at me.” He opens his arms and takes a step away, turns around, inviting Daniel to take a good look at the sack of bones and rags he’s become. “This is what you would’ve ended up like. Your nice house, your cool couch, even that stupid painting on your wall - none of that would be yours. Your destiny would be to end up a piece of useless crap like myself, sleeping at whorehouses for lack of a better place to go. I’ve accepted that this is it for me. Money, love, career, success… It was just not on my menu. But _you_ … You didn’t have to end up this way. You were young, curious and easily excited, and I was… I was a nice lad, who told good stories and knew how to suck a dick. It’s not your fault you fell in love with the wrong person.”

“For fuck’s sake, Finns!” Daniel walks away from him, afraid that if he stays and listens to that crap about saving his life once more he’s just gonna lose it. Instead, he goes back to his cigarettes and lights another one. If they keep going like this, not all the packs in this house will be enough to keep Daniel's nerves in check. “Why can’t you just admit that you’re a fucking coward? Stop saying that all you did was about saving me. What are you, a fucking priest? Jesus. You were a _coward_ , that’s it. You sneaked out of that room like a fucking criminal and you haven’t got the slightest hint of idea of what that did to me. You might’ve saved me from an overdose, but you turned me into a bitter fucker who walks through life with a fucking frown on his face. I’m _unhappy_ , Finns. And that’s all on _you_.”

Finns watches him carefully for a spell, something like hurt flickering momentarily across his face. “Well, then…” he starts. “Hate me. Not Stevie. He’s got nothing to do with that.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried? Stevie spent the better part of the last two years wanting Xabi’s head on a silver plate, he couldn’t even hear his name without getting all snappy and murderous. I, on the other hand, was trying to find you. You kicked my ass without even a goodbye, you _lied_ to me and let me go to the scariest on Earth by myself, and still I couldn't give up on you. It would’ve been a lot easier if I could just hate you, but I couldn’t. I still can’t. It was never the heroin or the coke, Finns, it was you. _You_ fucked me up.”

Daniel thinks maybe he’s being too hard on him, too blunt, because Finns falls into quietness for a while. This is going in waves; first, he was dead nervous; then, he was invaded by this surge of nostalgia that invariably turned into sadness; now, he’s just gradually getting angrier as the memories of that last night and all the ones afterwards become more and more vivid. It was hell. Finns was an ass, no matter how he tries to look at it. A heartless bastard who abandoned him in the darkest hour of his life. All that bullshit about doing it for him - that’s just sugarcoating the truth, not to mention irrelevant. It doesn’t erase the hurt and the betrayal, doesn’t take away the pain.

And yet… 

For years he blamed Stevie for the tragedy of his life, for years he tried to find a man who was deliberately ignoring him and who is now standing in his living room, confessing to it all and showing very little signs of remorse. And yet, still he can’t find it in him to loathe Finns.

Finns’ eyes flicker away, back to the photo of the band. He lifts one hand and traces down a finger over Fernando’s face. “I wasn’t cut out to be loved, Dan,” he muses, quietly. “I wreck things up. Everything I touch. I’m the anti-Midas.” He makes a pensive pause. “You should be with people like him.”

 _I should_ , Daniel thinks. “But I’m not,” he says. 

“You still can.”

“Already told you he’s with Stevie.”

“So? If he’s sleeping with you, he can’t be that much in love with him.”

Well. Daniel had never really thought about it. The whole situation with Fernando is complicated in ways he simply doesn’t want to consider. Deep down he knows there’s just no way this will end up well - not for the two of them, not for Stevie, definitely not for the band. They’ve done what they’ve done, and even if it never happens again, there is an undeniable level of involvement there that went perhaps a little over the less complex ‘just-sex’ barrier. It can never be just sex with Fernando. 

They’re friends, they’re in the same band and he’s dating - no, not just dating, he’s _living_ with another band member. Dan’s disregard for Stevie notwithstanding, it’s still fucked up and quite possibly dooming. It could very well be the end of The Red Kop if Stevie finds out. So he just doesn’t think about it. It is what it is: they like each other, they have a good time together, sex is great. Feelings are confusing, and Daniel’s had enough of those for one twenty-something lifetime. Whenever something resembling fondness in a more sensible manner begins to boil up, he just brushes it aside and moves on like nothing happened, like it simply doesn’t matter. 

But the truth is he knows it’s not that simple. And he’s staring at the empiric proof of that.

“I wish things were that easy,” he starts again, taking another long drag. “I keep telling Fernando the same thing. That he doesn’t have to care about Stevie or their relationship, because if you want something, then you should just go ahead and get it. Doesn’t matter if anyone else is going to get caught in the cross fire, because… You feel what you feel, and that’s it.” Dan shrugs lightly. “I tell him that every time because I'm a bastard and I want to sleep with him, but I know it’s not true. I don’t know what the truth is, I just know that there isn’t a little magic switch that you can turn off to stop caring.” 

It feels awful to take the lid off those long forgotten feelings again. There’s a reason why he doesn’t think about it, ever. But there’s also a huge sense of inevitability attached to it, of resignation, like he can’t avoid it now that the can of worms is open. It’s just how it is; Finns has this power to bring back a rush of good memories and good feelings, but he also sets wide open some doors Daniel tried to keep shut for so long. In hindsight, that’s what he’s always been like: a measure of happiness to balance out the large doses of misery that comes with being a sodden junkie. 

“Fernando is…” he continues after a spell. “He’s great. He’s got everything going on. I like him, a lot. I more than like him, really, I… Care about him, deeply. I want him to be happy and I feel good thinking that I could make him happy, happier then with Stevie. But he’s still not the first person I think about whenever I close my eyes. I want to - I want to think about Fernando. I want to miss him, to need him… And sometimes I do, I guess. But it’s different.” He turns back to Finns. “I try forcing myself to think about Fernando first, because he’s easy. It’s potentially problematic that he’s someone else’s boyfriend, but he’s still easy compared to you, Finns. You _hurt_. Thinking about you hurts. But I can’t help it. Whenever I think about him and whatever it is that we have going on, you always pop up in there. It’s like you’re a bloody watermark on every relationship I have, doesn’t matter what kind. I can’t be with anyone else without feeling that you’re there, looming over me, reminding me of how fucked up everything can get in a second.” 

Daniel looks down, at the cigarette still burning between his calloused fingers. He doesn’t know if the smoke really calmed him, or if he’s just finally starting to settle down after the initial turbulence, years and years of bottled up feelings that were out in a snap when he laid eyes on the ghastly figure of his former lover. But what he notices is that he’s not shaky anymore. His hands are steady as a rock. 

“You broke me, Finns,” he says, measuring out each word. “And I’m not sure anyone is ever going to be able to put me back together.”

When he looks back up he finds something like pain flickering across the other man’s face. Finns is hurt. Not devastated, but still the guiltier Dan thinks he’s seen him all night, about anything. It’s also the most unadorned and honest thing Daniel’s said, and the fact it came out with such ease, not a hint of anger or agitation cracking up his voice, probably shot it right through Stephen’s well-built walls. Or so Dan hopes, at least. He’s too tired for the rehearsed speeches and the nearly political defenses of his actions Finnan has been waving about like a white flag. Saying it was all just to protect him doesn’t make anything all right.

After a long spell of silence, Finnan blows out a heavy gust of air. “I’m sorry, Dan,” he says. “I really am.” He moves his bag from one shoulder to the other, still keeping it close to his body. “I told you this wasn’t a good idea. I should go.”

Daniel takes one last drag of his cigarette and throws it out. “I already told you I’m not letting you go back to that place.”

“Dan -”

“Don’t Dan me,” he interrupts, taking purposeful steps towards the Irishman. “What, you didn’t think this would be awkward? What were you expecting? Tea and biscuits?”

“No, but…” he searches for a word, doesn’t find it, then simply shrugs. “It’s just not going to do either of us any good.”

“Speak for yourself. I feel very good right now.”

“Really? How are you benefiting from me being here?”

The Dane can’t help the little mirthless laugh that escapes his lips. “Why is everything always about benefits with you? Things aren’t always black and white, Finns. I should hate you, but I don’t. I should never want to see your face again, especially after tonight, but I want you here. No one’s benefiting from it, it’s just what I want. I’ve taken a weight off my chest and doesn’t matter what you say, not talking about it doesn’t solve anything. I don’t sneak out of my problems like you do. So stop making decisions for me.”

“I’m making decisions for myself, Dan.”

“Under the assumption that you’re doing something for me. Or that’s what you’ve been saying in your defense the whole night, right? I’m 29, Stephen. I think I can decide what I want for myself.”

Finns blows out a breath. “So, what is that supposed to mean? You’re not letting me go?”

“Back to that whorehouse? No fucking way.”

“Am I your prisoner now?”

“No... But if you really want to go, then you’re gonna need to have a very good reason.”

“You mean better than all the reasons I’ve given you so far?”

“You haven’t given me one single reason yet, Stephen. You just said a bunch of crap that makes no sense to me.”

Finns considers him for a moment, then lets out a weary sigh. “Fine. I can’t win. I’ll stay.”

“You honestly thought I was just going to usher you out?”

“Doesn’t matter, Dan. You want me to stay? Fine. I’ll stay. Just know that you’ve been warned.”

“About what?”

“About me.” Finns smiles at him, in spite of everything, and Daniel can’t help but quirk up his lips in return. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I need a shower.”

“You can use my suite.”

Finns motions his arm in a ‘lead the way’ kind of gesture. “Show me around your house then, Agger.”

“Very well,” he says, and takes him up to his bedroom.

x-x-x

It takes him a while to convince Finns that his clothes - or the pieces of rag he was calling clothes, anyway - weren’t even good enough to polish up a car. Another while for Finns to accept Daniel's old pajama pants, at least. Daniel was very much aware that if it was him in Finns’ place, he’d never accept it. It does feel a little bit like charity. But he is on the righteous end this time, so Finns could just as well swallow up his pride and indulge him. 

When the Irishman closes the bathroom door behind him, Daniel sits back down on his bed and takes a deep breath. 

_Shit_.

This has been a rollercoaster of a fucking night and it isn’t even over yet. He needs a drink, he thinks. He needs lots of drinks. His mind is still fuzzy and he feels oddly like he just got hit by a monster truck. It’s hard to make sense of things, hard to figure out what to do first. Should he get up and pour himself some whiskey? Should he go make something for them to eat? Should he change into more comfortable clothes? Basic things are suddenly not coming very naturally to him anymore. He can’t think properly. 

When the sound of water running starts coming from the bathroom, he lays eyes on Finns’ bag, abandoned in the corner of the bedroom.

Daniel’s heart starts racing faster again.

He shouldn’t. He really, _really_ shouldn’t. Pestering the guy to stay at his house, forcing him to take new clothes - that’s one thing. Going through his personal stuff… Well, that’s something else entirely.

Fuck it. Just fuck it.

With three long strides, Daniel goes to the bag and opens up the zipper. It’s just as old as the rest of the things Finns was carrying with him, and the minute he pulls the bag open, his heart skips a beat. The water is still running, he’s got time. One little look to the still closed bathroom door and he starts fumbling inside. Rags, towels, socks, a notebook and… Dan’s hand connects with a little black bag. Even before he takes it, he knows what it is.

Finns used to carry around a little bag like this one before too. His most precious possession. It’s a different bag now, but he confirms that the content is exactly the same once he starts inspecting it.

Heroin, cocaine, dozens of little colorful pills, a few joints and some other stuff Daniel doesn’t even recognize. He’s been out of the market for some time now. That’s why he didn’t have money to pay for a decent room or decent clothes. He spent it all on this shit.

Daniel feels his stomach start to churn away inside, tastes the bile on the back of his throat. If it’s for Finns or for himself he feels sick, he doesn’t know. It’s been years since he last laid eyes on this stuff and the mere smell of it makes every hair in his body stand to attention and his arms itch.

It’s in moments like this that the line between right and wrong becomes impossibly thin, almost invisible. Daniel should probably leave it there and find a way to cope with the knowledge that Finns is walking around with a time bomb that could probably kill him in less than an hour if he decides to take it all at once. Would that make him a greater human being? Would it be respectful?

Well, those are things he’ll never know, because he shuts back the bag, leaves it exactly where he found it, but takes the entire content with him. His first instinct is to throw it out. Go to the other bathroom and flush it down the toilet. But something keeps him from doing it. A kick inside that speaks of darker times of his life. 

He opens a drawer inside his closet and hides it underneath some shirts.

When he sits back down on his bed, he feels strange, torn between being nauseated and excited, that weird rush of adrenalin going through his veins as though he just robbed a bank. Palms sweaty and heart drumming, he hears the water stop and holds his breath.

If Finns finds out he took his stash…

Rubbing his face with both his hands to try and wipe off the guilty look he’s sure he’s got there, he gets up and starts undressing, only stopping when he’s about to get out of his jeans. It probably wouldn’t give the right impression, lying naked in bed to wait for Finns.

Strangely enough, sex is something that hasn’t even crossed his mind. It’s usually the first thing to pop up. And it’s not even that Finns looks… different. Like a sick person, fragile like a dry stick. Although that’s probably part of the reason, too; Daniel wouldn’t even know how to hold him properly, afraid he would just snap in his arms. But the main thing is that the baggage Finns comes with ends up relegating sex to a second plan.

When the Irishman finally comes out, Daniel is sitting in bed, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back to the headboard. 

“Wow,” Finns says, after watching him for a moment, before turning off the light and stepping closer to the bed. He looks like a completely different person after the shower. He shaved, Daniel notices. And without the stubble and the garbage bags he was wearing before, he looks definitely better, healthier. Closer to a living person than a corpse who forgot to lie down. "You have like a thousand new tattoos,” Finns says, smiling. “I like those. You didn’t have half of them last time.”

“They are mostly new,” Dan replies, stretching out his arms in front of him to show off the ink on his skin. He’s rather fond of his tattoos, wears them out like a trophy. And they also proved to be quite an aphrodisiac in the last few years. 

“It looks great.” The Irishman sits down on the bed with one leg folded under his body to take a closer look. He touches Dan's forearm with the tip of his finger, outlining one of the drawings. It is totally innocent, Dan knows, as he gets that kind of thing all the time, but the moment Finns’ finger connects with his skin, he feels a jolt of electricity going all the way from his arm to the base of his skull. “Did it hurt?” Finns asks, not taking his eyes from the tattoos as if he’s trying to read them.

“Yeah,” Daniel says, keeping his cool. “But you get used to it after a while. And the pain is kind of good.”

Finns frowns. “How is the pain good?”

Dan shrugs. “I can’t really explain; it just is.”

When Finns shifts next to him, Daniel’s eyes finally catch a glimpse of the inside part of his arm. There are dozens of little scars and needle holes, some trumping over the next one, creating dark keloids from several ill-cured infections. The skin around the area is red and purple and dying. Exactly like his own arm used to look before, only worse.

“I started the tattoos to cover the marks,” he says, not gazing away from Finns’ wounded limb. “I started with the inside part of my arms. See?” he puts it out for the Irishman to take a good look. Finns is suddenly uncomfortable again. “I still have the scars. You can feel them, but you can’t see them, it’s all covered in ink. Then I kinda liked how it felt, the pain of getting it painted over, and then the magic of seeing them disappear. Sometimes I forget it’s even there. When people look at my tattoos they don’t care about what’s underneath them. Everyone seems to think this defines me, somehow, that it says a lot about who I am. I didn’t want to be the guy with the needle marks. Now I’m the guy with the tattoos.” He pauses and looks up to meet his former lovers’ gaze. “I don’t need anyone else to know I’m actually still the guy with the scars.”

Finns holds his gaze levelly for only a moment before hanging his head low and standing up from the bed. “Well, I don’t get to pretend,” he states, simply. Dan reckons hearing that kind of thing - or everything he’s said to Finns tonight, really - probably feels like a slap to the face. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to hitting Finns, but he hopes it stings.

“So,” the other man continues, changing the subject. “Where do I sleep? I don’t mind taking that cool couch.”

“Couch? No. You stay here.”

Stephen blinks at him. “I’m not taking your bed. I thought you said you had spare rooms.”

“I do.”

“Then I don’t need to take your bed. It’s your bed.”

Dan pats the spot next to him. “Here.”

Finns looks nearly shocked. “You’re not getting up?”

“Do you have any infectious diseases I should know about?”

The little color Finns still has on his face completely drains out. “No!” he says, in a mix of horror and indignation. “I’m not sick.” _That’s debatable_ , Dan thinks, but doesn’t mouth it out. “But… What are you - Dan, you can’t - You’re not suggesting that we -”

“What, sleep together? That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Finns is just riled up now, flaunting his arms about in the air nervously. “I’m not going to have sex with you!”

“Who said anything about sex?” He fixes the pillows on the bed so that there’s a distance between where he is and where Finns is supposed to lie down. “I said sleep, not hump. It’s a king size, Stephen, there’s enough room for both of us.”

“I don’t think that -”

“… _is a good idea, Dan_ ,” the Dane finishes his sentence in a little affected voice. “Yeah, you’ve been repeating that like a broken record all night. I thought we had already established that I don’t give a damn about what you think is a good idea or not. You owe me.”

“And because you think I owe you -”

“I don’t _think_. You do.”

“And you want me to pay it back by sleeping next to you?” Dan nods in affirmation. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why, because demanding sex would?” Finns closes his mouth with such fierceness Dan hears his teeth clicking. He slides down on the bed until he’s lying on his back, arms under his head for support; a smirk quirks up his lips. “Don’t think you can keep your hands to yourself, Stephen? I’ve been told my tattoos are quite irresistible.”

“Why are you joking about this? It’s not funny.”

“Jesus, Finns. Why is the idea of sleeping with me so horrifying anyway? Are you disgusted?”

“What? No!” Finns shakes his head furiously. “I’m not disgusted. But you should be.”

“Just because you look like Casper on starvation?”

“… Casper on starvation, really?”

“Definitely.”

“God,” Finns sits down on the bed, attentively not getting too close. “I look horrible, Dan. I’m very much aware of that.”

“You look sick,” he says, calmly. “But you can never look horrible. You’ve always been a handsome lad.”

Finns’ features relax considerably and for a second Dan almost thinks he’s going to smile, but he just squints his eyes suspiciously at him instead. “You’re definitely not going to get me to sleep on this bed by making compliments.”

“Saying you don’t look that bad is now a compliment? You’ve lowered your standards.”

“I take what I can get. Most people just run away scared.”

“I wouldn’t,” he shrugs, takes his arms from under his head and pulls Finns further onto the bed. “Really, just stop fighting. You’re not going to win.”

With a loud and dissatisfied grunt, the Irishman finally does lie down, puffing up the pillows before sinking his head down. 

“I don’t remember you being this bossy. Someone’s been spoiling you. Is it Fernando?”

“No one’s been spoiling me, I’m just not trying to impress you anymore.”

Finns’ pout slowly disappears as he relaxes. Dan shifts to lie on his side, staring at him with a soft grin. There’s still a considerable distance between them, but he can smell the scent of his soap on Finns’ skin now. It is strangely, but actually not so surprisingly, soothing.

“I haven’t slept on a proper bed like this in… I don’t even remember when the last time was,” Finns comments, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him. “Maybe never.”

“It’s a good bed,” Dan says. “You can thank me tomorrow.”

The Irishman chuckles. “What’s the purpose, by the way?” and he finally turns to face Dan. “Why do you want to share a bed?”

“Because I want to keep an eye on you.”

“Afraid I might ditch you in the middle of the night?” 

He’s joking, Daniel knows. Or at least he’s said it as a joke. But Dan’s not at all amused, because in fact, “Exactly.” 

Finns sighs and lies on his side as well, so now they are face to face. If Dan squints his eyes and tries hard enough, this almost feels like they’re back at some two-stars hotel in Birmingham or Edinburgh, sneaking out in the middle of the night to sleep together right under Carra’s nose, exhausted after a gig or another and so much in love. Daniel would give everything to go back to that time and stay there. It wouldn’t matter if they never really became famous or if he never had money for a big bed; just him, Finns and a little hotel room. That was all he needed to be happy back then. Now he’s not even sure he still remembers what happiness is supposed to be like. It feels as though it’s the sort of thing that only happens to other people, never to him. But with Finns here, like this… He can almost taste it again.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, really low, like a confession.

Finns’ lips turn into a small, private smile. “Me too.”

"You know... I want to rip that smile off your face with my bare hands just to find out what is it that you keep under those manners. Nothing ever gets to you. It's annoying."

Finns chuckles. “I’m actually not that different underneath.”

“But you should be. Not letting anything get to you is a dangerous thing.”

“Things do get to me, Dan. I’ve just learned how to downplay it.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I don’t know. Not long.”

“Where are you going next?”

“Not sure yet.”

“How can you not be sure?”

“Things change fast. Yesterday I was sleeping in a whorehouse, getting offered a blowjob by a very sweet lady and also a job by the manager, which I don’t really know what to think of yet…” he frowns a little, pensively. “But anyway. Now I’m here, in this fine house, with you. What happens tomorrow is a completely different story.”

“What kind of job did the manager offer you?”

“He said I had a nice mouth,” Finns grins. “Then he said I looked like the kind of person he was looking for to work with him, so…”

If Finns had told him that story when they were still outside the motel, or in the car, Dan would’ve exploded in a rage attack and maybe gone back there to snap the guy’s neck. Now, though, he erupts into merry-eyed laughter. “He wanted you to suck him!”

“I noticed,” Finns agrees, smiling. 

“He thinks you have a whore’s mouth.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You were pretty good with your mouth back in the day, I’ll give you that.”

“I still am, Dan. It’s like riding a bike. You can’t unlearn the tricks.”

They share another soft laughter, let it die out into the middle-of-night silence. Liverpool is asleep and he’s laughing with Stephen. Dan feels it settling heavy in chest, like a promise and a curse all at once. The quiet steadiness slowly surrounds them like a cloak as the harshness and the myriad of emotions of the night begin to take its toll on him. His eyelids start to feel heavy, as do his limbs, exhaustion creeping up into his bones. 

“You should get some sleep,” Finns says.

“You should too,” he replies.

“I am tired,” the other man agrees.

“I can see that.”

“You still wear me out, Daniel Agger.”

Finns stifles a yawn, rubs his eyes with the tip of his fingers. Keeping the distance between them is hard because Stephen’s hair is too short and Daniel, in spite of himself, still wants to touch it. 

Taken by a sudden whim, he leans over and covers Finns’ mouth with his own. He can sense the other man stiffening a little next to him, but Finns doesn’t push him away, which Daniel takes as a cue to continue. It starts out as a chaste kiss, just lip on lip, but he closes his eyes and deepens the liplock. Stephen is hesitant at first, doesn’t kiss him back, makes it hard for him to put his tongue in his mouth, but gives in eventually and turns to accommodate him better. His mouth feels oddly dry, Daniel thinks, but he kisses exactly like he used to. With his eyes shut, he can pretend they’re somewhere else, in some other time, not crushed down by the weight of wrong choices. Life isn’t supposed to be so hard; it’s too short and too complicated for anyone to have only one single shot at getting it right. 

Uncertain fingers touch the side of his face, rough knuckles caressing his cheek ever so lightly. It’s exactly like before, only different. Only rougher and raspier and with a different aftertaste. They stay like this for a while, kissing like two adolescents who haven’t discovered the joys of sexual pleasure yet. It takes Stephen two seconds too long to open his eyes when Daniel pulls away, almost like he wishes the Dane hadn’t. 

There was absolutely no second intention in his kiss, which is somewhat of a small miracle, considering it’s him. He’s not at all turned on, and it’s not because he’s horrified, like Finns said. It was just this: an incontrollable desire to feel close to him again. To taste the happiness in their old memories, pure and naïve like they used to be, in spite of everything. When Daniel still lived under the assumption that he was going to live forever and nothing would ever bring him down. 

He needs that. Even if it’s a flimsy belief, even if it lasts only one kiss long, even if it’s a very long shot. Unlike Stevie, who seems to only be able to remember how much of a disappointment and a heartbreak Xabi was to him, Daniel keeps all the good parts safely in a little corner of his chest. And after everything is said and done, that’s all there’s left. 

Dan smiles. “Good night, Stephen,” he says, and goes back to his own side of the bed, respecting the near arm’s length space separating the two of them.

“Good night,” Finns says. And then there’s no more thought, only sleep.

x-x-x

_One year and seven months before…_

“That's one fine piece of ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not you, Pepe. Him.” Daniel nods towards the blond boy standing on the other end of the stage, tinkering with his guitar.

This is the second of three days of concerts in London. Everyone is pretty excited, even himself, by his own standards anyway. First day was superb; the house was crowded, everyone was jumping, singing, there was a huge line of people waiting for them outside and a girl even showed him her breasts for him to sign. Not that he’s exactly into breasts, but it was kinda hot and also kinda cool. That’s what super starts do, they sign tits. 

“Ah,” Pepe says, smiling as he sees who Daniel means. “Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but you’re late.”

“Late for what?”

“For the ‘Fernando is hot’ party, of course.”

“I didn’t realize there was a party.”

The Spaniard snorts and goes back to checking his drum set. “I’m pretty sure there have been parties. If you know what I mean,” he punctuates his sentence with a wink.

“Do you realize you sound like a creep?” The other man just shrugs.

Since Daniel came back from rehab to find out they had a new guitarist, things have progressed really fast. Ideally, he was supposed to go slow and not jump right back into work, especially considering the kind of work they do. Cokeheads are all over the place, all the time, and, well… Six and a half months in rehab and the last thing you want to see is a cokehead, because it’s also the first thing you want to find.

All he knows is Xabi took off, Stevie is a much bigger ass, Carra nearly ripped his head off about a million times before they finally settled into continuing with the band and now there’s Fernando, who Daniel didn’t really care much about in the beginning. He is a quiet kid, and considering he’ surrounded by Carra, whose only purpose in life is to be louder than everyone else, Pepe, who doesn’t know how to communicate without gestures to make everything he says seem bigger, Stevie, who’s an opinionated cunt, and, well, himself, who turned pointing out to Stevie how much of a cunt he is on every opportunity into something like a hobby, Fernando mostly goes by unheard.

The freckles weren’t really big on him either, at first - it makes Fernando look sweet, Daniel thinks, as does the blond hair. Why would a guy who is allegedly into rock 'n roll dye his hair to look like someone who spends his days rehearsing boy band choreographies? This is a rock band, people are not meant to be _sweet_ \- but then again, they shouldn’t look aristocratic either, and yet Stevie parades through life as though he’s Liverpool’s brooding royalty, although that’s just part of his asshole act. 

Anyway… Watching the boy now, with a sweaty shirt clinging to his well-toned muscles, Daniel’s thinking that counting freckles on that torso with his tongue should be interesting, actually, thus concluding, after months of spending time with him, that Fernando is, in fact, hot.

“I really don’t know what you mean by that, Pepe,” he continues. “And I also don’t like that wriggly thing you did with your eyebrows. Don’t do that.”

Pepe sighs. “I’m saying, my friend,” he starts. “That you were not the first person in this environment to notice that Nando is hot.”

“Did you turn gay while I was away?”

“Not me, dumbass.”

Daniel takes a look around. Carra is talking to some guys at the back, the light and sound guys are fixing the wiring at the stage. Fernando is standing at the corner, by himself, with his guitar, while just a few feet behind Stevie is sitting with a little notebook. Dan’s eyes rest on him for a moment. Every few seconds he raises his head just a tiny bit and glances over at where Fernando is, then quickly writes something down on the paper.

_Oh._

“Gerrard,” he says, not as a question.

“Touché,” Pepe confirms.

“Stevie’s doing Fernando?”

“Very much so.”

For some reason, he’s not surprised, but the idea distresses him anyway. “How do you know that?”

“Nando told me.”

“How is that even possible? Gerrard’s an ass.”

“Not to Nando, apparently. He’s rather fond of him, from what I’ve heard.”

“Why wouldn’t he think he’s an ass when Stevie’s an ass pretty much all the time?”

“I don’t know, Dan. Maybe because Fernando is hot and Stevie wants to do him?” Pepe gives him a pointed look. 

“He’s a jerk even when he’s trying to impress.”

Pepe chuckles. “I guess he’s an impressive jerk, then.”

“I doubt it.”

He takes another look at Fernando; little strands of blond hair are falling on his face as he concentrates, and every now and then he throws his head back to get the hair away from his eyes. Daniel could just bite on that neck. “Well, that is a perfectly hot body gone to waste,” he says.

“Would you do him?” Pepe asks, completely nonchalant.

Daniel looks slightly aghast. “What kind of question is that?”

“It’s a question,” Pepe shrugs. 

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because whenever you ask me that kind of stuff and I get into details, you get horrified.”

“Then don’t get into details, smartass. Just answer what I asked. Would you do him or not?”

Daniel sighs. “Yes and no.”

“What?”

“Yes, I would do him,” he says, taking on Fernando’s ridiculously attractive bottom. “But no, I wouldn’t do him,” he completes.

“You do realize that doesn’t make any sense, right?”

“Please, keep up, Pepe, I don’t want to explain myself all the time.” The Spaniard merely glares. “I would do him because he’s hot, but I wouldn’t do him because he’s a band mate. Basically, I would do him if he were anyone else but our guitarist. Getting it on with band mates doesn’t end well. Gerrard should know that.”

“Nando is a good kid,” Pepe says, softly. It’s the ‘poor-Daniel-just-got-out-of-rehab’ tone of voice they use on him whenever they remember where he spent six months. Daniel liked it very much at first, because they felt guilty and tried to be as nice as they possibly could, and he wanted them to feel every bit as responsible for his misery as they should. Now, though, it's honestly starting to get a little old.

“They’re all good kids until they stomp all over your heart and walk away like it’s none of their business.” He can’t quite keep the bitterness from etching onto his words as he speaks. He’s cool most of the time, at least on the outside. Doctors said that he could experience long periods of depression and all that crap and that he should immediately report it to the psychiatrist on his weekly visits if he ever felt any symptoms. 

He never felt like offing himself or self-inflicting any sort of damage; he got lots of tattoos, enjoyed the pain and most of the time the only thing he wants dead is Stevie, metaphorically speaking anyway. He doesn’t feel depressed, exactly; but he is miserable practically all the time. He supposes there’s nothing to be done on that department. It just seems to be the his new default state of existence. He's lucky enough to have something to concentrate on other than sulking.

Daniel refuses to talk to them about how he feels, or how it went at the clinic, or answering that yes, for fuck's sake, he is ok, and all those questions people make. Carra knows everything, but mostly because he was the person in touch with his doctors and psychiatrists during the whole thing. Whenever they met, Daniel either gave him the silent treatment, when he was in a good mood, or told him to fuck off and shove his kindness up his Scouser ass, when not so much. 

They shipped him off to Scotland, they don’t get to make questions about it.

But then sometimes… The bitterness surges right back up and he vomits it all out. Everything that happened - the overdose, Finns, the clinic, Scotland - it changed him. It changed how he sees life, how he lives life, how he appreciates life. There's a new filter between him and the rest of the world and it's not making it any prettier. So even though he tries to keep it to himself, sometimes that is just impossible because he’s simply not the same person who boarded that plane to Glasgow. It’s in those times that the scars and the wounds not quite healed yet become visible to the others. And it’s also when it hurts the most.

He absolutely hates to look weak.

“People are very different,” Pepe continues. “Not everyone is out to fuck you up. Fernando is not like Xabi or Finns.”

Daniel snorts. “Right.”

He’s not gonna get into that argument, but, putting it simply, Pepe is wrong. People are people and they’re all fuckers until proved otherwise. That’s what Dan’s learned from life so far.

“So, like, what? You’re never going to see anyone else, ever again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“How many people have you been with since you came back?”

“I honestly don’t feel like talking about this.”

He hasn’t been with anyone, in fact. There was this guy at the clinic, a suicidal alcoholic whose boyfriend had died on a fire he started while too drunk to realize what he was doing. He had been somewhat of a regular, because, well. Even lunatics have needs. Sex was a good way to canalize his frustrations. But since he came out, there hasn’t been anyone. And he’s not really looking forward to it, anyway.

“Come on, Dan, it’s part of getting better,” the Spaniard insists.

“I’m not a sex addict, Pepe.”

“But you need to go out! Meet new people, get wasted, have crazy sex with strangers -”

“I can’t,” he cuts the Spaniard off, gazing at him coldly. “I can’t go out, I can’t get wasted, I can’t pick up strangers. Just because I’m out of rehab, doesn’t mean I’m fixed. I’ll lose control and throw away the six hellish months in that fucking prison, and I don’t intend to go back. Things don’t just get magically better. If I see someone doing coke in front of me…” he trails off. 

He’s thought about this many times - about how he’d feel if he went somewhere and suddenly found people doing drugs. Would he resist? Or would he give in? Sometimes he thinks he’s strong enough, but most times… Most times he knows he can’t trust himself just yet. 

“So I can’t,” he continues. “And I won’t.”

Pepe has the decency to look embarrassed, but he doesn’t give up. “I think you need to give yourself some more credit.”

“Giving myself too much credit is exactly how I ended up there.”

“You can’t lock yourself up forever.”

“It’s not going to be forever. But I won’t be rushing anything. If it happens, happened. If not, then so be it. I won’t jump into temptation just yet.”

The Spaniard looks thoughtful for a long spell. “What I think you need is to have someone like Nando in your life,” he muses then.

Daniel arches an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Taking my side against Stevie, Pepe? You’re gonna get fired.”

Pepe gives him an eye-roll. “I’m not taking anybody’s side. I’m just saying. Maybe not Nando. But someone like him.”

The Dane glances back at the other Spaniard, observes him as he turns around just a bit to look back at Stevie. They exchange a private smile, hold each other’s gazes for long seconds, and then go back to what they’re doing, like reminding each other of what they did before coming here or promising to meet again later on.

Daniel finds that kind of thing to be nauseating these days.

“Someone like _Nando_ doesn’t need someone like me in his life,” he says. “I’m damaged and fucked up. You wouldn’t wish that on him. Pretty things like _Nando_ should be with golden rays of sunshine like Stevie.”

“You just don’t think anybody’s capable of loving you.”

Daniel laughs curtly, because he’s heard that so many times during his therapy. ‘ _You don’t believe you deserve to be loved’, ‘You don’t think anyone can love you’_. Load of bullshit. So Dan just replies to his friend exactly what he said to his psychiatrist. 

“On the contraire, José,” he says, with a grin. “I know they are.” A pause, and one last glance at Stevie and Fernando and their secret romance blooming on the other end of the stage. “I just don’t think anything good will come out of it.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter closer to the end, thank God! As always, please forgive me for any mistakes you mind find. Feedback is much, much welcome! Thank y'all for putting up with me and reading this. :)

As if with the sole purpose of getting him out of bed, rays of sun light break through the dark clouds to poke Fernando in his sleep. He grimaces, face crumpling up lazily as light floods the room. Fernando tries to move, to shift under the sheets and turn to the other side to hide his eyes from the luminosity, but finds that he can’t; there’s a heavy arm on top of him, encaging him in his spot.

He blinks once, twice, three times until his eyes adjust to the light, and then looks at the body curled up next to his, sleeping soundly with his face half-covered by the duvet. Stevie’s mouth hangs slightly open, snoring low, but not always, a little spot under his face indicating he’s been drooling. The fact Stevie is not at all a pretty sleeper came as a surprise to Fernando in the beginning; now he just thinks it’s natural that he gets all his composure and general good-manners from trying to compensate something.

It’s ten in the morning, and the alarm clock was supposed to have ringed about twenty minutes before, but they didn’t remember to set it. They basically dropped dead in bed at some point, which reminds Fernando that his failed attempt at cooking dinner has been completely abandoned in the kitchen in favor of sex and ice cream - and there is that too, a mess of perfectly good food gone to waste for him to clean up.

Well, the thinks. At least it was worth it.

“Stevie,” he says, voice husky and lazy. “Steeevie…”

Stevie snorts, munches on his own thick morning saliva, but doesn’t wake up.

Sighing, Fernando decides to poke him on the ribs. Stevie flinches a little and finally opens his hazy blue eyes. “What?” he asks, lips barely parting as he speaks.

“We need to wake up.”

“Why?”

“We have a meeting in an hour.”

His eyelids fall shut again. “Can’t we call in sick?”

“Both of us?” Stevie nods, nuzzling his face against the soft pillow. “He’ll never buy that.”

“You can try.”

“Me?” Fernando snorts. “No way. He’s your best friend, you call him.”

“You’re his favorite.”

The Spaniard frowns. “Am not.”

“You are, he told me that himself.” Stevie opens his eyes again, and they look clearer now, in a lighter shade of blue as he begins to stir out of sleep. “You’re like a puppy, Nando, no one says no to you. I think it’s the freckles,” he muses.

“My freckles and I are not going to listen to Carra yelling so early in the morning. Especially since he’ll definitely be making sex references.”

“So what? It’ll be true.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I have to hear it from Carra.” Fernando shifts to lie on his side, and feels as Stevie, instead of moving his arm away, puts it on the small of his back and pulls him closer. The Englishman places a kiss on his forehead and casually lets his hand slide down to grab his butt; Stevie smirks, Fernando arches his eyebrows. “Oh, so now you’re awake?”

“You woke me up.” He kisses him again, this time on the mouth. “Good morning, by the way.”

“It would be better if we didn’t have to go to that stupid meeting. What is it about, anyway?”

“Something to do with the American tour, I think. Benítez and Dalglish will be there.”

“Fuck.”

“I thought you liked them.”

“I do. Mostly. Not when I have to get out of bed for them, though.”

Stevie grins and pulls Fernando back into another kiss, deep and languorous this time, rolling him over to lie on his back while climbing half on top of him. Fernando breathes into the kiss, turns his face to the side to allow his boyfriend more access, but eventually pulls away. “Stevie,” he complains, as the other man bites on his lower lip and tries to stick his tongue in his mouth once more. “We can’t.”

Stevie lifts his head and looks down at him, visibly annoyed. “You are such a spoilsport.”

“I’m only trying to save us from a world of pain if we’re late.”

“We’ve had worse.”

“But we should be the responsible ones. We have to set an example to the rest of the band.”

“Why?”

“I like being his favorite,” Fernando grins cheekily, and places a peck on his boyfriend’s lips, pushing him away gently. “I get points for keeping you in line.”

“What are you, his infiltrate spy?” Stevie pushes the duvets away and starts to idly crawl out of bed. “Can’t believe you’re denying sex on behalf of Carra.”

Fernando turns once more, his back to Stevie’s side of the bed, and settles himself comfortably under his sheet. “Something like that.”

“You’re not getting up?”

“You can take a shower first.”

“You’re not coming with me?!”

“No, I’m cool. We’ll just be late if I do.”

“You traitor!”

Fernando exhales happily and closes his eyes, preparing for another 15 minutes nap while Stevie takes his shower. Maybe he can make it twenty. He certainly needs those precious few moments of rest; there’s a tingly sensation on his legs and butt informing him that he’s still not fully recovered from their intense work-out session the night before, and probably will be sore throughout the day. Nothing he can’t deal with, though. It’s the kind of soreness that puts a smile on his face.

“Fernandoooo,” Stevie starts again, speaking from somewhere above him on a little screechy voice, even more high-pitched than his normal tone. “Come to shower with meeee,” he insists.

When Fernando opens his eyes, he finds a naked crotch disturbingly close to his face. “What the fuck?”

“Come to shower, Fernandoooo! Don’t you see how happy I am to see you?” Stevie repeats in the same annoying voice, moving his hips a little and shaking his half-hard dick in front of Fernando's face.

“Is that your penis talking?” Fernando asks, frowning in shock. “You penis is talking in a baby voice? Jesus, Stevie. That’s sick.”

“Pleeeease, Fernandoooo…” he continues.

“Stop that, for the love of God. I swear I’ll never touch that thing ever again.”

Stevie takes a step backwards and crosses his arms, pouting. “Why are you playing hard to get?”

“Why do you have a hard on?”

“Because, a, I had a very good night; b, very good dreams; and, most importantly, c, may I inform you, that sheet covering you? Extremely thin.”

Fernando stirs tiredly and closes his eyes again. “I’m sore, Stevie. Let me rest a little, ok? We’ll have to sit through a very long meeting, to which we’ll be late if you don’t go take a shower right now. I will tell Carra it’s your fault, by the way.”

He puffs out, very displeased, but stomps out to the bathroom without too much protest. “You are such a cocksucker.”

“Hmm,” the Spaniard mumbles an agreement. “Not right now though,” he speaks under his breath and yawns.

 

x-x-x

 

Fernando’s face crumples up in a grimace as he is brought out of sleep once more. This time, by the very strange sensation that it has started to rain inside his bedroom.

“Hmmmm,” he grumbles, stirring under the sheets only to find that there’s a heavy weight keeping him from moving properly. When he opens his eyes, Stevie is right there, lying on top of him, beaming.

And dripping all over.

“You’re wet,” he says, rubbing his own face to wipe away the water.

“I know.”

“I was having a good dream.”

“That’s wonderful,” he says, lowering down his head to kiss Fernando’s cheek, his wet hair leaving cold drops of water all over Fernando’s face.

Fernando turns his head away, hiding his face on the pillow. “Stevie!” he protests

“I’m just giving you a little kiss!”

“You’re wetting the bed! Isn’t it enough that you drool all over your pillow?”

“I don’t drool,” he says, matter-of-factly. “That’s too ungracious for me.”

“And wetting me isn’t?”

“No, the word you’re looking for is sweet.” He grins and kisses him again. “See? Sweet.”

“What happened to you?” Fernando arches him an eyebrow, twisting under Stevie to lie completely on his back now and accommodate the weight better.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re like the bloody Energizer bunny and it’s not even 11am yet. You’re never up before noon.”

Stevie laughs and Fernando takes a second to fully appreciate the moment, pushing the rest of sleepiness he still has in him away. It’s been a while since they last had a morning like this. It’s also been a while since he last heard Stevie’s full-on laughter, Fernando realizes. The sort of laughter where he just lets himself go, throws his head back and you can see all the 32 years of crinkles showing on the corner of his eyes. For a lead singer in a rock band, Stevie is actually rather quiet most of the time, some would even say he’s serious. But this is what he’s like when he’s feeling completely at ease, away from other people’s eyes and ears. Just a big kid, really.

And Fernando thinks he looks absolutely beautiful like this.

It’s been too long since he felt this much in love with his boyfriend, and the realization inevitably sends a pang of guilt shooting right through him. They’ve been distant and weird, and even though Stevie has been acting strange for a while - and Fernando is pretty sure he knows why - he’s just as much to blame for it as the other man.

It’s hard not to think about Daniel when he looks right into Stevie’s bright blue eyes. He feels naked in a sense that goes way beyond the fact that he is, in fact, wearing no clothes at all. Fernando has to look away, focus on Stevie’s chin, in fear that he’ll find out, that he’ll peer into his soul and see the guilt eating away on the inside, and then it will all be ruined. Their moment will be gone.

“Did you take care of your problem?” he asks.

“Uhum,” Stevie replies. “It wasn’t ideal, but it did the trick.”

“I suppose I owe you a hand then.”

“You owe me a lot more than that,” he punctuates his sentence with another kiss on his lips.

Fernando sighs deeply, wrapping his arms around Stevie on a loose hug. “Why aren’t we always like this?”

He notices as something changes on the Englishman’s face as his smile wavers for a moment and something like uncertainty crosses his darkening eyes. The lightheartedness dims considerably, and Fernando knows he’s touched a nerve.

“We are always like this,” Stevie says, albeit not as cheerfully as a second before.

“We haven’t had a moment like this in a while. We’re… weird,” Fernando mulls, little thoughtful creases between his eyebrows. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re not… fading.”

“Fading?”

“Yeah, like… Falling into that zone where nothing is as exciting as before and we sort of get used to each other so much that… It’s just not interesting anymore.”

Concern etches deeply on the creases on Stevie’s forehead as he pulls away a little, using his forearms to lift his torso and give Fernando a proper look. “Is that how you feel?” he asks.

“No,” Fernando hurries to reply. “But I think maybe you might. Sometimes.”

“Don’t be silly, Fernando. That’s nonsense.”

It isn’t, the Spaniard knows. It isn’t when Stevie seems to have his mind miles away almost 24 hours a day and Fernando has to rush out of the house to find refuge from his anger and frustration in someone else’s bed. It makes perfect sense.

What doesn’t make sense is how on Earth he can feel so strongly about two people at the same time. How can he spend the night at Daniel’s and then have a morning like this with Stevie as though nothing happened? This isn’t like him at all. Fernando’s head has been such a mess lately he barely recognizes himself anymore. 

There’s a strong sense of compensation in his relationship with Daniel, whatever it is, for both of them. It’s how Fernando keeps himself from exploding or going crazy about the fact he’s got no idea what goes through Stevie’s head these days, but can imagine. Oh, and he can… Every time he sees Stevie looking distant and wistful and oddly quiet, even by his own standards, his mind reels back to Madrid, to that café and to all the things that might’ve happened after that he didn’t get to see or ask about because he went on to sleep with someone else and therefore lost all his right to demand loyalty. 

But he can’t help it; he’s jealous.

And it all changed so fast… The days before the Madrid trip, Stevie’s mood was difficult. But after that, they simply became a completely different couple for most of the time.

Fernando closes his eyes and brushes off all his worries and the complications and focuses on the moment instead. He needs to take what he can get, because regardless of everything else, he still loves this man and has been spending most of his time missing him as though he's gone somewhere far away when, in fact, he's been _right here_ all along. 

“Hey,” Stevie says, pulling him out of his thoughts. “We’re not fading,” he repeats. “Ok?”

Fernando considers him for a second, then says, “Ok,” and smiles.

“Good. Now stop thinking about that nonsense,” Stevie smirks at him. “Because you are a very lucky man.”

The Spaniard quirks up an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Stevie starts sliding down his body, pulling the sheets covering Fernando as he goes. “In spite of your meanness towards me earlier, I am feeling very generous this morning.”

Fernando deliberately ignores the little voice of responsibility in his head, screaming in a rather Scouse accent that Jamie is going to go berserk on them and that they _absolutely cannot_ waste any more time. 

What he does instead is allow a tiny smug grin to grow on the corner of his lips. “Are you?” he asks, lifting his head a little to look down at Stevie. There’s that gleam of lust sparkling in his eyes that makes him just impossible to resist.

“Uhum,” the other man hums, biting the sheet and pulling it all the way down with his mouth until there’s nothing more separating his face from Fernando’s groin. He breathes hotly against his boyfriend's thighs, leaves a wet patch of kisses all the way up to his cock. Fernando sucks in a sharp breath, all the hairs in his body bristling in anticipation. “See how great I am?” Stevie asks, displaying smugness on every line of his body. “I expect a pay back later, by the way,” he adds, “When we’re done with that stupid meeting.”

“We should -” he tries to begin, but then he feels himself being engulfed by Stevie’s mouth, warm and velvety and oh-so dexterous. Stevie plays tough, but the truth is Fernando’s never met anyone who could give head quite like him. You’d never expect that from such a tiny little mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes out, his hands resting on top of Stevie’s head, guiding him, grabbing on his hair and pulling on it fiercely. “Carra is going to kill us,” he mumbles, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

“He doesn’t have to know,” Stevie says, barely letting go of his flesh.

“You think he won’t notice?” Another sharp intake of air. “I don’t know how to not look well-shagged when I - ahh… When I’m well-shagged. Jesus.”

Stevie pulls away, and Fernando nearly pushes his head back down in an act of sheer desperation. He can’t stop now. The Spaniard refrains from doing it, though, but does send his man a very meaningful glare.

“Fernando, if you mention Carra one more time while I’m sucking you off,” he says, slightly breathless, and leaves it that.

“Sorry,” Fernando rushes to add. “Now, please?”

“Gladly.”

When Stevie goes back to business, Jamie becomes positively the last thing on his mind. Whatever scolding they get for being late, it will be very, very worth it.

 

x-x-x

 

The minute they walk into the conference room, trying to look as nonchalant and casual as they possibly can, Carra’s voice blasts like a thunder.

“Oh, look, Pepe!” he says, on an oddly cheerful tone that actually makes him sound even more terrifying. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith decided to grace us with their illustrious presences! What an honor!”

The smile on Jamie’s face is strained and terrible and it looks like he’s ready to jump them and twist their necks. Stevie looks away and doesn’t say anything.

“Where the hell were you?” Pepe asks, looking just as annoyed as Jamie, but not nearly as threatening.

They deliberately ignored at least six phone calls on their way to the meeting. Every time Fernando’s phone rang, he’d silently glare at Stevie, who was driving, and curse something in Spanish before ignoring the call. Stevie would just roll his eyes and politely remind him that he hadn’t looked half as upset just an hour before.

“Oh, Stevie, yes, Stevie, please don’t stop,” he mocked.

“Shut up and drive faster,” Fernando replied.

Now, they just quietly ignore the furious eyes burning on them and take their spots on the meeting table, right across from Pepe and Carra.

“Do you have to ask, Pepe?” Carra says, bleeding irony. “Just look at those wankers. They were -”

“Late,” Fernando interrupts him with urgency before he can get into details. “And we’re very sorry.”

“Why are you even nagging us?” Stevie asks, defiantly. “Daniel is not even here yet.” As always, Daniel gets under Carra’s wings while he gets slammed.

“Daniel’s not coming,” Jamie says, simply. He sounds rather unhappy about it, but also conformed.

“What do you mean he’s not coming?” Fernando cuts in, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

“As in, he’s not going to take part on this meeting,” Carra explains, curtly. “Can I call Benítez now and get this on with?”

“No. I thought this was an important meeting, he has to be here,” Fernando insists.

Carra takes a deep breath and puts down his mobile. “He sent me a text about ten minutes ago informing me he can’t make it. I’m not cancelling the meeting.”

“What did the text say?”

“It said, ‘I can’t make it’. I don’t know any more than you do, but I didn’t want to argue, just like I don’t want to be arguing right now.”

“Well, have you called him?” the Spaniard keeps pushing, by which point Stevie turns to him with a curious air about his face. Fernando is starting to sound way too concerned for Stevie’s taste.

“Oh, God,” Carra says, slumping back against his seat. “No, Fernando, I haven’t had that brilliant idea yet. What the hell do you think? That I was having a picnic with Pepe while I waited for all you ladies to fix you goddamn make-up?” He stops the rant for a moment. “Obviously, he didn’t pick up. Same as you, by the way.”

“Something could’ve happened to him.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like an accident.”

“Or a hangover,” Stevie chides in.

“I meant something serious,” Fernando glares. “Daniel wouldn’t just miss a meeting for no reason.”

“Oh, you mean like the 100 or so he’s missed before? Yeah, I’m sure not.”

“I’m serious, Stevie.”

“So am I."

Fernando watches him for a moment. “I haven’t seen Daniel missing a meeting in ages. He wouldn’t stay out for nothing.”

Well, fuck, Stevie thinks. His boyfriend standing up for Daniel Agger, of all people, with such intent is getting under his freaking skin. As if he wasn’t suspicious enough yet. He gets it that he can’t control how close to Daniel Fernando is going to be as a friend - _as a friend_. But this sure as hell doesn’t sound like mere friends stuff to him.

“I didn’t say it’s nothing, I just said it’s booze. Or laziness,” he protests. “Or maybe he’s screwing some boy, have you considered that?” he asks, out of pure spite, and also because he wants to see the reaction.

Fernando’s face remains just as impassive, but he takes long, unnerving seconds to answer. “He could be in trouble,” comes the frosty reply.

“I think Daniel knows how to pick his boys, he’s got a lot experience with that.” Fernando presses his lips into a firm, grim line and looks away from him. It takes a lot of self-restrain for Stevie not to jump to his feet and shake that look out of his boyfriend's - _his_ boyfriend, not fucking Daniel's - face with his own hands. He can feel his blood beginning to boil inside his veins, but he keeps it to himself. Mostly. “Daniel doesn’t have trouble, Fernando, trouble has Daniel,” he adds, just for the sake of not sounding completely hysterical. Besides the fact his boyfriend could be cheating on him, Stevie actually does believe he has a point here. Daniel’s never been the most reliable member of the band, and if it’s been a while since he last screwed up - so what? Once a fucker, always a fucker.

“You’re funny,” the other man says, not at all amused.

“And you’re exasperated.”

“I am not!” Fernando protests, voice rising just to prove Stevie’s point - a fact that makes Stevie even angrier, if that’s possible.

“Yes, you fucking are! You’re exasperating right now!” This argument is quickly escalating into a proper fight, he thinks - thinks, but doesn’t do anything to stop it.

“I’m worried about him! He’s my friend! And our band mate! I shouldn’t be the only one worried in here!”

“I don’t worry about hangovers.”

“You don’t know it’s a hangover.”

“And how the fuck do you know it isn't?”

“Why do you always have to assume the worst about him?”

Oh, that is… Stevie swallows down hard as fury threatens to surge. “Please, do excuse me if I didn’t realize Agger is a bastion of trustworthiness. And since when do _you_ trust him so much anyway?”

“Trust? This has nothing to do with trust!”

“Then why are you so exasperated?! He sent a fucking text. Don’t you think he would’ve written something if he needed any help?”

“Stop saying I’m exasperated!” Fernando nearly shouts. “I’m just being a normal human being and showing concern! And you should too.”

“I am showing my concern. I’m showing my concern for the fact you’re so bloody exasperated!”

“ _SHUT. UP._ ” Carra’s voice thunders across the conference room as though it’s coming from a megaphone. It sends a shiver up Stevie’s spine and they both immediately snap their mouths shut and turn to their manager - Carra’s face is red like he’s about to combust. Damn, he’s mad. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” he continues once he’s certain he’s got their full attention. “You were 50 minutes late to this meeting because you were home fucking like bunnies and now you’re getting into this stupid argument like me two old aunties?! What the fuck happened, did you run out of lube?!”

Pepe lets out a grunt, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “God, Carra… Please don’t make this any worse than it has to be. I’m right here.”

“I don’t want to hear another word about this,” he continues, completely ignoring Pepe and pointing a very menacing finger to both Stevie and Fernando. “If you’re going to be throwing jealousy fits -”

“I’m not jealous,” Stevie cuts in, hurriedly.

Carra fixes him with a death glare. “Interrupt me again and see if my fist doesn’t fly in your face, Stevie,” he admonishes before moving on. “You consumed the little patience I still had left in the two minutes you spent bickering. You can take your little petty domestic fight into your own bloody kitchen. If either of you so much as open your mouths without being requested to do so in this room, I swear to God I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

Stevie has his arms crossed and a little pout and he’s looking down at the table because he’s very much aware they both look like two little kids getting a scold from a particularly mean headmaster. He’s still bloody mad at Fernando, but there’s maybe a tiny little part of him that’s also embarrassed because this is neither the time nor the place for that sort of fight. But damn, this thing with Daniel and Fernando is driving him out of his mind! He blames them for his totally unusual outburst.

“Yes,” Fernando says, strained and all sulky.

“Good.” Carra picks up his mobile again. “Now I’m gonna call Benítez and Dalglish, apologize for keeping them waiting on behalf of my stupid 30 year-old kids and tell them they can come in here.”

“I’m not 30 yet,” Fernando adds, shyly.

“What did I say about not opening your mouth?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Then don’t. Jesus. I don’t get paid for that.”

“Actually, you kinda do,” Pepe comments.

“You too?” Carra asks, holding his mobile in one hand like he’s ready to throw it on their drummer’s head.

“Sorry,” Pepe apologizes, palms held high in the air. “I’m on your side.”

“None of you are on my side,” he mumbles, hitting the phone keys as though he’s trying to murder it

Stevie spends the rest of the meeting between not saying anything and getting riled up whenever Fernando does - he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one supposed to be sulking here.

 

x-x-x

 

Fernando smiles, shakes hands and sneaks out of the conference room the minute his presence is no longer required. He’s rather good at keeping his mask on and pretending - he’s been doing it for weeks, after all, since Madrid - but there’s only so much he can stand when his nerves are as jangly as right now.

If he has to look at Stevie and keep a stupid smile on his face while doing it or act like he gives half a shit about what’s being said, he’s gonna snap and break someone’s neck.

Daniel’s phone rings five times before he gets sent to voice mail.

“Damn it,” he hisses under his breath, and starts typing. ‘R u ok? Call me.’ 

“Couldn't wait to text him?” a voice speaks from over his shoulder, breathing on his neck.

Fernando jumps in his place and steps away from a very suspicious Stevie, who gives him a very frosty look in return.

“Jesus, Stevie,” he says, putting away his phone. “Spying on me now?”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Why? Is it a secret?” he asks, face taut. “Is it _personal_?”

“What’s up your ass?”

“The question is: what’s up yours?”

“What the fuck is your problem?!” Fernando raises his voice to a near shout again. He tried staying away from confrontation, he really did. But Stevie can be a pain when he wants to, and it seems he’s chosen here and now to be at his worst.

Fernando doesn’t know what infuriates him the most about it: if it’s the jealousy fit turned into a full-on attack for nothing, or the fact that Stevie’s actually quite right. He feels cornered and wronged at the same time. How’s that even possible?

“My problem is that you’ve taken a lot of interest in Daniel lately.”

“Daniel’s my friend. I take interest in the people I care for.”

“Do you, really? Would you be throwing a fuss if it was Pepe missing?”

“Of course I would!”

“Exasperatedly?”

“Stop fucking saying I’m exasperated! _You_ are making me exasperated!”

“Then stop freaking out about Daniel!”

Fernando counts to five and takes a deep breath. This is going to end very badly in just about ten seconds and the record building - with the people who are responsible for their entire careers just one wall away - is most definitely not the right place for hell to break loose.

“Why don’t you just say it, Stevie?” he asks, defiantly. His heart is drumming like a runaway train inside his chest, because this, right here, can be the end of… well, a lot of things. Starting with his relationship. And despite the fact he’s angry enough to provoke Stevie into getting to the point, he’s also terrified that it might work. “Stop sugarcoating it. Just say what’s on your mind.”

“You know exactly what’s on my mind.”

“Enlighten me.”

His boyfriend seems to swallow down several different responses, none of which would probably do either of them any good, most involving several curses as well, but stays quiet, his face twitching in anger.

“You can’t, can you?” Fernando continues, twisting the knife a little bit further. _What the fuck are you doing?!_ , a desperate voice screams in his head, because, frankly. “You’re one to talk.”

“What are you implying?”

“I don’t know, Stevie. What do you think I’m implying?”

That’s it, he thinks. If Stevie says something, he’ll either be blatantly lying, which will cause Fernando to lose his mind, or he’ll tell the truth, which will pretty much do the same thing, only differently.

He can hear his heart beating, slow and strong like a thunder, but, instead, Stevie decides to keep the Cold War running. At least until they get home. “You know what?” he says. “Fine. You stay here and worry about precious Danny Boy. I’m going home.”

Fernando snorts derisively. “Really? You’re just gonna walk out now?” Stevie ignores him, swirls on his heels and walks to the elevator. Fernando follows. “You can’t leave me here, we came together.”

“Do you need money for the taxi?”

“What?!” They’ve had fights before, but Fernando never thought, in his life, he would ever see the day when he’d honestly want to punch Stevie. Apparently, that day is right here. “Are you refusing to drive me home?”

“I’ll drive you home. With one condition,” Stevie says, turning to him as the elevator door slide open behind him. He takes one step back to stand on the way and keep it from closing while he speaks. “You leave that phone aside and don’t talk about Daniel anymore today. Not a word. You don’t call him, don’t text him, don’t ask anyone about him.”

Fernando imagines his face right now looks exactly like those of cartoons when they eat too much pepper; all red, with smoke coming out of his ears.

“No!” he replies, hands bowled up in fists he’s using all his self-control not to connect to Stevie’s grim-lined, selfish face. “You can’t forbid me from caring about my friends! I’m not your dog!”

“No, you’re not. You’re my fucking boyfriend, so why don't you fucking act like it?!”

The Spaniard senses Stevie’s shout reverberating across the hallway, sending a cold shiver up his spine. He’s still terribly mad, but says nothing. He doesn’t know what to say other than ‘fuck you’, and even in his current state he knows that would mean the next time he went home would be to pack up his bags. Frankly, he's a little shocked at all this. The fight came out of nowhere and he's never seen Stevie being this spiteful before, about anything. 

Instead of keeping the argument going, Fernando merely stares into the other man’s cloudy blue eyes that, right now, are like two sharp spears heading right into his own brown ones.

Fuming, Stevie steps into the elevator.

“You chose Daniel. Fine.”

“I didn’t choose anyone! Stevie!” There’s no time for argumentation, though. The doors slide shut in front of him and his boyfriend - like he’d made clear to the whole world and their brother to hear - disappears out of his sight.

“Fuck!” Fernando grunts, kicking the door and crushing it a little with his foot.

“Well, if there was anyone in this building who wasn’t aware that you two are gay yet,” Pepe says, coming from behind him.

“Were you eavesdropping on us?” Fernando asks, not in the mood for funny comments.

Pepe laughs richly. “Eavesdropping? Fernando, a deaf person on the 30th floor probably heard you too yelling like maniacs in here. I didn’t need to eavesdrop. I just wanted to take the elevator and go home, but I figured it was inadvisable to step into the hall while you were barking at each other. I was merely waiting for a chance to run.”

Fernando fishes out his phone from his pocket and checks that Daniel still hasn’t replied. Well, fuck. He had a massive fight with Stevie to send out one little text message and Daniel didn’t even have the decency to answer it. Brilliant.

“That must be very hard,” Pepe comments, crossing his arms over his chest like he doesn’t mean to go anywhere, anytime soon.

“That what?”

“Juggling two lovers at the same time. Especially being both lovers part of the same band.”

Fernando lifts his head up like a thunder. “What the fuck are you on about?” Pepe merely cocks him an eyebrow. He knows. Great… And he thought he was being so discreet about it. Fernando just sighs, puts his phone back in his pocket. “How did you find out?”

“You’ve never been a master of subtlety, Nando. And neither is Daniel. Possibly the less subtle couple to ever exist.”

“We’re not a couple.”

“You know what I mean.”

He considers his fellow Spaniard for a moment. “Do you think Stevie knows?”

Pepe snorts. “Do you _think_? Have you heard anything he’s said to you? If he’s not 100% sure, he’s just waiting for you to say something to confirm his suspicion.”

Of course he knows, Fernando thinks. All those days leaving to ‘jog’, coming home hours and hours later, reeking of cigarettes - Daniel’s goddamned cigarettes. The weirdness, the lack of conversation, the petty little arguments… It’s all there. Of course Stevie knows.

Just like he knows about Alonso. And the mere thought of the man right now makes him want to go home just to beat the crap out of his hypocrite of a boyfriend.

But he suspects he can’t quite do that. They’re both equally hypocrites, equally at fault, equally blatantly lying to each other. This is so fucked up Fernando wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“You gotta do something,” Pepe says.

“You don’t have to tell me that. In fact, what I definitely don’t need right now is more people telling me what to do.”

“I’m just trying to help, Nando. This is visibly killing you. And Stevie. And maybe Daniel too. There are too many people involved in this relationship.”

“I know that,” Fernando says.

“Then fix it.”

“Fix it how?”

Pepe shrugs. “There’s only one way to fix this. You have to break up with him.”

Fernando thinks for a moment. “… him who?”

Pepe’s eyes widen in shock. “Who?! Nando!” and now he’s yelling just as loud as they were a minute before.

“Shhhh!” Fernando quiets him, frowning. “The whole world might know I have a boyfriend, but they don’t need to know I’m cheating on him too! Keep it down!” he speaks lowly, through greeted teeth.

“Sorry.” Pape comes closer to him. “But seriously, what the hell are you playing at here?!”

“There are two other people involved, how am I supposed to know which side you’re taking?”

“There are no sides to take, Fernando José! Only one of those two people is your boyfriend! It’s Daniel you have to break up with, obviously! You break up with Stevie and you kill this band!”

With Pepe putting things that way, Fernando has to turn his head to the other side in embarrassment for even considering the possibility. As if he wasn’t feeling pressured enough, there’s also the part he’s been deliberately not taking under consideration simply because it makes things 100 times more complicated. The band.

“Wait, you’re not - For Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus, Fernando, tell me you’re not thinking about dumping Stevie to be with Daniel,” Pepe pleads.

“I’m not!” he answers. “Or I wasn’t. Until five minutes ago. I’m not sure I’ll still have a boyfriend by the time I get home. You saw what he was like.”

“Fernando…” Pepe shakes his head from one side to the other, totally helpless. “Fernando, Fernando, Fernando, mi amigo, look at me.” He puts his hands on Fernando’s shoulders and keeps him facing him as he speaks. “This is not going to end well. There is no way, in this world, that this mess will have a blissful outcome. It is a miracle that Stevie and Daniel even managed to stick together all these years, you cannot push it. And right now, by sleeping with both of them, you are pushing it way too hard.”

“I never planned for things to happen this way, all right? They just did.”

“How many times?”

“… A few.”

“Accidents don’t happen ‘a few’ times.”

“Well, you’re not helping, Pepe!” He bats the other man’s arms away from him and steps back. “Stevie cheated on me first!”

“And then you had the brilliant idea of solving it by cheating on him back.”

“It wasn’t a solution, it was a coping mechanism,” he explains, and then quirks up a very confused eyebrow. “And why don’t you sound surprised? You knew about that too?”

“You’re all a bunch of morons. Do you think that surprises me?” Pepe draws in another breath. “Look, you need to start thinking about how you’re going to solve this, ok? This isn’t just about who you take to bed. It’s about our band. That whole meeting we had with Benítez about the American tour could be worth shit nothing if this thing with the three of you explodes.”

“All right, all right!” he says. “I’ll fix it!”

“Good,” the other Spaniard nods in acknowledgment.

“But you need to stop taking his side. We’re both from Spain, you have to be on my side.”

“I am on your side! Daniel only thinks about himself, Stevie mostly only thinks about himself, it’s totally useless to try and get anything into those stupid asses’ heads. I’m saying this to you because I think you’re the sensible one in the situation. If anyone is going to make the right thing, that will be you. And just so you know,” he adds, “if you hadn’t fucked Daniel, I would be kicking Stevie’s white British ass all the way back to Madrid right now. But I can’t beat him without beating you too, can I?” he finishes giving him a pointed look.

“You could try?” Fernando grins, shortly. He would very much like to see someone sending some punches Stevie’s way for him, since he pretty much ruled out the possibility of doing it himself and still come out of it as the righteous one when he went to bed with their bassist.

“Ha-ha,” Pepe says in mock laughter, pressing the elevator button. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, and then, “Actually, no. I need a ride, but I’m not going home.”

Pepe considers him. “Fernando…” he starts.

“You said I need to fix this, right? I’m going to fix it.”

“You want me to be your accomplice now? Isn’t it enough that Gerrard is going to murder you and Daniel? Do you want to get someone else involved?”

“Do you want me to get this sorted out or not? If I go home now, it’ll be to get into another fight with Stevie and God knows what will happen.”

“Fine!” Pepe exclaims, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’ll take you. But if you sleep with him again, Fernando…”

“I won’t,” Fernando says, crossing his fingers over his lips, but feeling bad about it even before they get into the elevator. This is a very easily breakable promise, he knows. One he’s made to himself a few times already - all in vain.

“If anyone asks, I haven’t seen you since the meeting and I have no idea where you are. I don’t want to have anything to do with that and you should know that I do not approve of it.”

“I get it, Pepe. Enough with the scolding,” he says, taking his phone out once more.

_‘I’m coming over right now.’_

Uncertain and still feeling his heart beating fast, Fernando hits send and joins Pepe on the elevator.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick update (at least compared to my normal speed). I have a feeling my last update wasn't very successful (actually, I got that feeling from all my stories), but I hope this one will put the story moving again and people will go back to reading it? I don't know. Either way, I just want to be done with it!
> 
> As always, please excuse my many mistakes! I did try to catch as many as I could, but that becomes even harder than usual when I'm down with a fever. Blergh!

Fernando is searching for words.

Not just any words; the right words. The perfect words.

_“We’re over.”_

No, no. Too blunt and inconsiderate.

“ _I’m sorry_.” Yes. Starting off by apologizing always shows regard. “ _I’m sorry, but what we’re doing is wrong and it cannot go on_.”

Hmm… Too theatrical. Also maybe a little hypocritical. You don’t sleep with someone several times and then talk like you’re the epitome of morality. 

“ _This has gone too far_.” Good beginning. “ _I really like you_.” No, scratch that part. Not the boyfriend. “ _This has been fun, but we need to stop_.”

Fuck.

Fernando exhales in frustration. Since when is breaking up with someone you’re not actually with so hard? The tricky part here is not exactly figuring out what to say; Daniel is not that sensitive, Fernando is pretty sure there’s hardly anything he can say that will hurt his feelings. But the probability that Dan will just say ‘ _Bullshit_ ’ and jump him anyway is humongous. 

And the worst part is that Fernando will probably let him.

The secret lies on the opening line. It has to be strong, definitive and convincing. It needs to carry an irrefutable intent. He needs to make it clear right from the start that he has made up his mind. No chances of going back.

“ _We knew this was just temporary. It was good while it lasted, I won’t lie to you. But it has to end._ ”

Well, talk about lack of intent.

“Daniel…” Fernando says out-loud as he stands before the Dane’s front door, finger hovering over the doorbell. He takes a deep breath, furrows his brow to try and convey sobriety and seriousness and puffs out his chest for a little more authority. “We need to talk.”

There. You can’t go wrong with a classic.

The Spaniard finally rings the bell and waits. Waits some more. Nothing happens. He rings again.

Nothing.

He fishes out his phone; no reply to his text yet. He tries Daniel’s mobile again. Voice mail. Maybe he’s still asleep. But if he’s sleeping at almost three in the afternoon, that probably means he did get wasted the night before, which technically makes Stevie right all along, meaning that Fernando had a major, possibly relationship-ending fight with his boyfriend for a hangover.

Well, at least that makes it easier to just break up with Daniel, then.

Fernando rings the bell once more. Still not a single sound coming from inside the house.

Is he not home then?

Maybe he did go somewhere after Fernando turned him down and ended up spending the night at someone else’s. The Spaniard doesn’t know whether he thinks that’s better or worse than the other option, but it does make him slightly angrier. 

“Damn it,” he says under his breath. He wants to kick the door in frustration because this day is turning out to be The Worst Day In A Very Long Time and he’s been in a low run like never before in the last few weeks, so that’s saying something. 

He’s trying (in vain) to work out how he went from there - a glorious morning blow-job - to here - not speaking with his boyfriend, being cheated on and/or ignored by his lover, in need of a cab and under the rain - in no more than a couple of hours. Which invariably causes him to brood over how he went from there - a happy, healthy, long-lasting relationship - to here - jealous of a lover - in less than a month. It’s a hell of a lot to work out.

Instead of releasing his frustration against the door for the second time today, he turns on the door knob - and finds it unlocked.

Slowly, Fernando pushes it open, craning his neck to take a peek. Not locking the front door is actually rather common amongst drunkards, he thinks. So, no reason to worry. Yet.

“Daniel?” he calls out. When no one answers, he decides to go in. 

Fernando closes the door behind him and stands still, trying to capture some kind of noise - any kind of noise - indicating that there’s someone home, but there’s no sound whatsoever. “Daniel?” he tries again. “You home?” Nothing.

With short, tentative steps, he advances. Everything looks perfectly norm-

Fernando stops dead on his tracks when he finally turns to the living room. His jaw falls slack as he takes upon the place. He knows it’s totally impossible, but the first thing to cross his mind is that Daniel’s living room was somehow on the route of a particularly nasty hurricane.

The second is that the door was unlocked.

“Fuck…” he curses. It’s a mess; books are thrown on the floor, covered in pieces of glass and porcelain. The painting that used to be on the wall is lying on the opposite side of where it was supposed to be hanged. Tables, drawers, pillows, the phone… Nothing was left intact. .

A little shaky, Fernando grabs his phone and proceeds into the room. “Daniel?!” he calls, nearly shouting now, his heart beating faster at each step. This doesn’t look good… This doesn’t look good at all. He knew there was something wrong, he knew it! And he dared doubting himself, he dared to even be mad at Daniel! God, if something happened to him… Fernando needs to call the police.

“Daniel?!” he tries again, already dialing the numbers.

“In here.” A faint voice comes from the kitchen.

Fernando practically runs. The scenario in there is not at all different from the previous room; cabinets’ doors are all hanging open, things have been pulled out and thrown all about. There are dozens of broken plates and glasses on the floor. But, standing in a corner, leaning against the counter, is Daniel. Still in one piece and not bleeding.

Fernando breathes out. “God,” he says, approaching the other man. “Jesus, Daniel. Why didn’t you answer me? I thought my heart was gonna rip out of my chest.”

“Sorry,” he says, simply, not looking up. He’s got his eyes trained on a liquidizer, apparently trying to put it back together. “I’m trying to fix this.”

This is strange, Fernando thinks. Well, stranger. Daniel sounds way too calm and oddly detached for someone who, apparently, had his house searched over. Shouldn’t he be freaking out? “Are you ok?” the Spaniard asks.

Daniel doesn’t say anything.

“Dan,” Fernando tries again, softer this time, stretching out a hand to touch his arm. Daniel stops, raises his eyes at him for just a split-second, and then goes back to his liquidizer. 

“I’m fine,” he finally replies. “I just really want to fix this thing.”

“Did you call the police?” Fernando tries, taking another glance around the kitchen. What kind of burglar searches a kitchen this way? “Did they do anything to you? Are you hurt?”

“Who?”

“The person who broke into your house, of course. Were you here when it happened?”

“No one broke into my house.”

Fernando blinks, deadpanned. “Then what happened here?”

Daniel stops again, sighing, and leaves the liquidizer aside for a moment. “What are you doing here, Fernando?”

The Spaniard nearly chokes on his words, eyeing the other man with something akin to shock. He opens and closes his mouth twice before he can produce any sound. Daniel’s finally looking at him - staring, really - waiting for his answer, and now Fernando wishes he wasn’t. He feels almost like he’s intruding something.

“You didn’t show up for the meeting,” he explains, sheepishly.

“I told Carra I wasn’t gonna make it.”

“And I was worried about you. Clearly, I was right.”

“I’m fine, Fernando.”

“You don’t look fine.”

The Dane holds his gaze for just another spell; he seems about to say something, but changes his mind and goes back to the liquidizer. “I will be as soon as I get this thing working again.”

“It’s broken, Dan,” Fernando points out. “Just like a lot of other things in here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Daniel drops the pieces on the counter and places his palms splayed over it, leaning over with his head hanging low, looking completely dejected about the loss of a… liquidizer? “That cost me a lot of money,” he mutters.

This isn’t right. This is definitely not right. Fernando was worried before, he became even more worried when he saw the wreck inside the house, but now he’s a notch above that.

“Daniel,” he starts again, concern etched onto his voice and visible on his features. “What happened here?”

The other man turns around, meeting his eyes again, and this time Fernando sees something different in there. Daniel looks… sad. Devastated, really. Heartbroken in a way Fernando never saw him before. Never even thought it was possible for someone like Daniel.

“Do you mind if we don’t talk about this?” he asks.

“Actually, yes,” Fernando says, albeit softly. “I don’t understand what’s going on but I think I should be worried. And I am.”

The Dane considers him for a moment before moving away from the counter and walking right past Fernando, back to the living room.

“Daniel,” he calls out, but the Dane just ignores him. 

This isn’t like him at all. Fernando follows Daniel, hundreds of possibilities rushing through his head. 

He finds the Dane kneeling on a corner and picking up a portrait. “Now I don’t need an excuse not to have this in my living room anymore,” he says, a brief, wan smile on his mouth. He waves the portrait in the air to show it to him; the glass is broken.

Daniel stares at the picture for another moment before putting the portrait aside. “Well, this is going to take a while,” he announces, glancing around his living room.

“Do you want me to help you?” 

“Nah,” Daniel replies. “I don’t really want to do that right now.”

“Well, you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to clean up the place… What do you want to do? You can’t _not_ do something.” He’s trying to be comprehensive here, he really is. Clearly something big happened. But it’s goddamn hard to be understanding when he hasn’t got a clue of what’s going on. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be scared, or worried, or what. So when he talks, he makes his best to keep his voice under control, but it’s practically impossible not to let part of his frustration bleed into it.

Daniel bites his lower lip, eyes fixed on his - Fernando knows that look. He knows that look very well.

With two straight steps, Daniel invades his personal space, holds his face with both his hands and covers Fernando's mouth with his own in a fierce kiss. It’s hard and hungry; there’s no passion at all in it, only need. Fernando barely has time to process what’s going on before Daniel’s tongue is exploring every corner of his mouth. Fernando moans a complaint into the liplock, not exactly kissing back, but not doing anything to stop it either.

When Daniel finally pulls back, Fernando is left wide-eyed and breathless. “Daniel…” he tries to speak, but the other man is soon going back for round two. He realizes if he doesn’t do something now, Daniel’s not going to stop either. “Dan…” he speaks again, turning his face away to break the kiss apart without being too blunt.

“What?” the Dane asks, visibly annoyed as he lets go.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think?”

“We can’t.” This wasn’t how he planned this to go. Not at all. He feels horrible to be saying it, now of all times, when Daniel looks so… vulnerable. “I came here to tell you that we can’t do this anymore. I had a horrible fight with Stevie today during the meeting, and… Well, this really doesn’t seem like the right time to be talking about this.”

Daniel exhales, eyes flickering away from Fernando for a moment, then back again. “I know,” he says, calmly. “I know we can’t. But right now, I…” He pauses, swallows down hard and cups Fernando’s face with both his hands once more, brushing the tip of his thumbs lightly against the other man’s cheeks. “I really need you right now, Fernando. So even if this is the last time, even you never come back here again… Please.”

Fernando feels his bones liquefying, his legs threatening to give in. Daniel’s tone is light at the same time it’s desperate, almost like a plea, and the Spaniard is left shell-shocked. Daniel’s actually begging for it. Begging for a little bit of comfort. Daniel’s usually all about smut and debauchery, always bleeding lewdness and wearing second intentions as bright as daylight, but this… This isn’t like him at all. He wants healing, wants Fernando to ease away whatever it is that’s eating him from the inside out and making him look so weak and exposed.

It’s still there, in the back of his mind, hammering against his skull; that tiny, little voice, sounding a lot like Pepe, telling him that he can’t, that he’s with Steven and that he should honor his commitment before it’s too late. 

It’s with a strange sort of ache in his chest that Fernando nods his head to Daniel. “Ok,” he says, his voice a little more than shaky around the edges. If it’s because he can’t stand to see such a strong character like Dan looking so defeated or due to his own indecision, he doesn’t know.

But when Daniel kisses him again and puts his warm, needy hands under his shirt, to touch and feel his skin - frankly, it all goes flying out the window. 

 

x-x-x

Xabi rings the doorbell and waits. In general, he doesn’t get nervous, or shaky, or nothing of that sort, about anything. Nothing sends Xabi Alonso out of his perfect balance. But if there is ever anything close to that sort of sensation, it is probably this - right here, this moment of anticipation before Steven opens the door to his home and allows him to walk into the most intimate and private side of his life: the place where he lives with Fernando Torres.

It’s giving him a bit of a goosebump, he has to say. As though maybe he’s afraid of what he’ll find in there. Afraid that he’ll like what he sees, that he’ll end up resenting Fernando somehow. Xabi is not jealous of him; not exactly, anyway. He’s a pretty straightforward and skeptical man, he knows he made his own choices and that Stevie was obviously going to end up finding someone else. He doesn’t know this Fernando boy, but he thinks there’s some kind of irony in the fact he’s also Spanish - thinks maybe it’s life paying a tribute to him, or finding a way of keeping him in Stevie’s system even if only by the coincidence of language and accent. 

But he also knows that if he’s ever going to have any sort of hard feelings towards Stevie’s new boyfriend, it’s right here, right now, when he comes face to face with the life he could’ve had and that is now inhabited by Torres.

When the door swings open, though, what he sees completely cuts the feeling. Xabi’s eyes widen mildly in surprise upon being greeted by an equally stunned Jamie Carragher.

“Jamie,” Xabi exclaims, trying to forge a smile.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Trust Jamie to have the subtlety of a slap to the face.

“I’m… Visiting,” he says.

Jamie turns to the inside of the house and Xabi sees Stevie standing behind him, a look of utter desperation on his face.

“Seriously?” Carra says to his fellow Scouser. “You throw a fucking jealousy fit during my meeting and act all butt-hurt and then invite _him_ here?!” He nearly shouts now. “You’re a bloody arsehole, Stevie, do you know that?! You think finding someone else to suck your dick is going to make anything better with Fernando? You idiot! What did I tell you about Alonso?! That lad is trouble!”

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

Stevie doesn’t say anything, just lowers his head down like a child would upon getting busted by a parent doing something tricky.

“I know, mate,” Carra says, facing him again now. “I fucking well know and I don’t like it. You should go.”

“No,” Stevie interjects before he can say anything. “I asked him to come, it’s not his fault.”

“You - I can’t - I don’t even - Fuck you, Stevie,” Carra stutters in anger. “Just fuck you! I should get you, Daniel and Fernando all fucking fired! Maybe you can ask Xabi to join and start a merry little band of stupid dickheads, how about that? Jesus Christ, I can’t deal with that drama!” He turns back to Xabi and points a very menacing finger to him. Xabi merely arches him an eyebrow. “You almost ruined my band once, Alonso. Do that again and I’ll personally hunt you down and when I find you, it will fucking hurt.”

With that, he stomps out of the house and walks to his car. “Great to see you too, Jamie,” Xabi calls after him and laughs when the other man flips him the middle finger without even looking back. “Lovely guy,” he tells Stevie. “Do you think it’s possible he hates me even more than you do?”

“He does. He had to put up with my mood when you left.” Stevie holds the door for him and waits until he’s inside before shutting it closed. “He's right to hate your guts.”

“I barely noticed.” Xabi considers giving Stevie a little kiss, but that would probably be too much of an indiscretion - too intimate, especially after that scolding they just got. “Well, I was going to start out by saying hello and asking how you’re doing, but I suppose I should probably say that it was not a great idea to invite us both to your house at the same time.”

“I didn’t. He just showed up, I wasn’t expecting.” Stevie leaves the door and marches to his living room. Xabi walks a little behind him, slowly, relishing every step, and watches as he drops down on the couch like a sack of potatoes.

The house is huge. A proper family house, the kind you’d buy to raise your three kids in. Except it’s only Stevie and Fernando, so there’s probably a lot of empty spaces - or, on the other hand, many options for varying sex. Something that Xabi always takes under consideration.

Everything there screams so highly of Steven the Spaniard can’t keep the little smile from gracing his features. It is exactly how he envisioned the Scouser’s home would be like: not exactly unstylish - or rather, it is unstylish, but then almost everything is unstylish to Xabi’s very particular taste. It’s more like… Exuberant. Over the top. Like going one step too far in the decoration and taking it from tasteful to all over the place. 

The couch is ridiculously large and silver-ish and the arms twirl in a strange fashion. There are gigantic pictures hanging on the wall - thank God it’s not of his own or Fernando’s face; that would probably be too much for Xabi to stomach - the carpet has a creamy shade, all fluffy and probably very comfortable, but rather distracting to look at.

For someone so discreet and casual like Stevie, his house is the complete opposite. If he didn’t know better, Xabi would think he married one of those big-hair-too-much-make-up-desperate-scouse-wife kinds of woman and let her decorate it for him. 

He might not exactly agree with Stevie’s taste, but he finds it incredibly reassuring that it is all Stevie and not Fernando. He doesn’t know what Fernando is like, granted, maybe this is more Fernando than anything. But it’s not what his instinct tells him. And that means that, however close they might be, he hasn’t expanded to fill Steven’s life completely. Not yet, anyway.

“So,” he finally starts. “You have a lovely house, Steven.”

“Liar.”

Xabi cocks up an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You are silently criticizing everything. I know that face.”

“Am not! I like your…” he looks around, searching for something nice. The center table looks all right, he supposes. “Center table.”

“Hm,” Stevie says. “That’s actually Fernando’s.”

Well, fuck. “Oh,” is all he says, not trying to disguise his dismay. “Speaking of him…” Xabi approaches Stevie at the couch, hands in his pockets. “What was that all about?”

Stevie’s eyes move away from Xabi as the wrinkles on his forehead become more accentuated. “Nothing. Just some problems at work.”

“Involving Fernando and a jealousy fit?”

“It’s nothing, Xabi. Leave it.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

“I didn’t ask you here to open up my heart to you, you know,” he says, sternly.

“No,” Xabi agrees. “You called me here to suck your dick, like Jamie very considerately pointed out. But according to him, there’s a reason why you want that, and I have to say I was wondering myself why would you have decided to invite me to your house of all places when you didn’t even want to see me just a few days ago. It sounded awfully rebellious for a family man such as yourself.” He can’t help the irony; it’s that thing, he’s not jealous of Fernando, but he’ll sting whenever he can, out of pure spite.

Stevie puffs out, annoyed. “I had a fight with Fernando, ok? That’s all.”

“Hmm,” Xabi says, and sits down next to him. “Jealousy?”

“What are you, my therapist?”

“If I was, talking wouldn’t be my preferred choice of treatment, Steven. But you’ve got your little black cloud and that’s very distracting. I don’t mind being a booty call, but I think I deserve an explanation.”

Stevie rolls his eyes and sinks further back on the couch. “Fine,” he starts. “My little cloud comes from the fact I think Fernando is cheating on me.” He pauses. “With Daniel.”

“Wow,” Xabi exclaims, eyebrows shot up in honest astonishment. This is certainly not what he was expecting. He figured it would take a very bad fight for Stevie to want him here, but this - cheating, and with Daniel from all people… Fernando’s got more layers than he thought. “That is… Very unexpected,” he comments. “And problematic. On several different levels.”

Stevie and Daniel had never been the best of friends, but things deteriorated drastically during the pre-rehab phase. Knowing Daniel and his fashion for holding a grudge, it probably got worse after he came back. Stevie is a possessive guy, one who attaches himself to the people he likes in feral bonds that are very hard to break - himself obviously included. It turned to a love-to-hate sort of feeling, but it’s still there. 

But Fernando lives with him. They are practically married. Any kind of cheating would be enough to drive Steven nuts, but with Daniel? It will most likely drive him homicidal. 

Now he understands Jamie’s ire. It wasn’t just about his presence - although Xabi suspects the Scouser would’ve been mad upon finding him there either way. But his band is going through some very strong turbulence. Suddenly, Xabi isn’t even the bigger threat surrounding The Red Kop. Xabi is a manageable problem. But the vocalist’s guitarist boyfriend sleeping with the bassist… Now, that is a complication.

“Aren’t you going to say anything else?” Stevie asks. “What a lousy therapist.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. An opinion. You were so eager to hear about my problem, you should have something to say.”

“I’m sorry, Stevie, but I don’t think there’s anything I can say that won’t come out sounding too hypocritical.”

Stevie frowns reprovingly. “Oh, so now you’re calling me a hypocrite?”

“That’s not at all what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“I don’t think you’re a hypocrite, Steven. I think you’re upset, probably confused as well, and that’s all very real. It’s not hypocritical if it’s honest. But you have to agree that the situation as a whole - you know, you cheat on him, he cheats on you - that _is_ a little bit hypocritical,” he explains. “I’m here after all, aren’t I?” 

Stevie shakes his head at him, looking very disappointed. “You people, frankly… First Carra, and now you. You! You of all people should be on my side.”

Xabi lets out a short laugh. “I don’t know which side is which here. I don’t know what you want from me, honestly. Do you want me to say that he’s a jerk? That he shouldn’t be cheating on you? I can say that, it will all be true, but… It just doesn’t seem right for me to be making that sort of judgment considering I’m, you know… Here to suck your dick.”

“Because you’re very concerned about what’s right.”

“I’m definitely not, which is exactly why I’d be lying if I criticized him.”

“Well, my side doesn’t criticize _me_.”

“But I’m not! I’m just saying you can’t be mad at him and then invite me over to your house. Can’t you see how that’s conflicting?”

“Oh, so now you too?!” Stevie stands up from the couch and walks away, going to stand by the window, sulking. “I should’ve just let Carra kick you out.”

“Steven…” Xabi exhales wearily. This is so not how he intended on spending his day. It’s surreal to be sitting in Stevie’s living room, giving him advice on his relationship with Fernando. Both because he doesn’t care and because he wants to fuck him, not push him back to his boyfriend.

“Fixing things with Fernando goes right through never seeing you again,” the Englishman says, looking back at him.

Xabi considers him for a moment. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, and then, “I don’t know.” The first answer is his instinct kicking in; he needs to save his relationship, stay true, or as true as possible, to the man who has chosen to share his life with him, not to the one who walked away. The second, though, is how he feels in earnest; confused, lost.

Not very different from Xabi, then.

“I get it, ok?” Xabi starts. “This is a tricky situation and I am on the eye of the hurricane. I know that. I have to admit I’m a little disappointed, though. I don’t have problems with you talking about your boyfriend, but I was actually excited coming here today. I had a good feeling. I should’ve guessed that there was something odd with Fernando, because I didn’t think you would ever invite me over. But I really wanted to see your house. Your home. The place where you share your life with him.”

“You’re sick sometimes, you know.”

“It’s not sickness; it’s curiosity.”

“It’s a sick kind of curiosity.”

“Well, don’t you ever wonder, sometimes, what your life would’ve turned out to be like if you’d done things differently? Everyone does that. But most people don’t get the chance to find out. This is me.” Xabi opens his arms, indicating the entire room - the entire house. “This is where I would be. This is what my life would be like. Maybe even this house would be mine - probably not that carpet, or that couch, but I could’ve chosen that center table,” he points to the table in front of him. “Fernando picked up from where I left off.”

“He’s feeding on your waste, is that what you’re saying?”

Xabi grunts indignantly, something very unlike him. “Stop putting words in my mouth, Steven, dear God. No. That’s not what I said. Fernando and I - well, I don’t know him, but I can assume - we couldn’t be more different. But it’s undeniable that we have something in common. And it’s not just you, it’s this.” Again he opens his arms. “My future two years ago and his present are pretty much the same.” He makes a pause, draws in a breath. “Regardless of that, though… I came here, before anything else, to see you. But… if you want me to go… I can go.”

That last part takes a little bit of effort to come out sounding dignifying. There’s nothing dignifying about admitting defeat and retreating. But Xabi is trying to be as comprehensive as he can; after all, he started this. He went after Steven in Madrid, he followed the man back to Liverpool; he can’t pull all the pieces here, Stevie needs to have some say. 

It’s not like he came back to England with the sole purpose of ruining Stevie’s relationship anyway; he doesn’t know what exactly it is that he had in mind, but it was not this. He doesn’t want to take away from Stevie something he can’t offer back himself. Not in the same mold anyway. Stevie is a man who needs stability, needs to feel reassured and safe. And that’s more than Xabi can give him.

Xabi wants to be with him and not ruin his life, if that’s possible. But he’ll let Stevie make that call. At least _that_ will be in his hands.

“I don’t know what I want, Xabi,” the Englishman painfully admits. “I know what I have to do, I know that having you here is a horrible idea and that it makes me a bigger arse than I’ve ever been. But even now, as I try to tell you to go, I can’t… Damn it, I just want to kiss you.”

Xabi smiles. That’s good enough for him. 

The Spaniard stands up from the couch and approaches him. He takes a peek outside; rain’s started to fall once more. When he looks back at Stevie, it’s with sincere fondness. “Then kiss me,” he says.

And Stevie does.

He wraps his arms around Xabi’s waist, possessively, and takes him into a slow and thorough kiss. It’s not nervous and bitter, like all the previous ones; it doesn’t feel as if Steven’s trying to prove anything to himself. He’s simply giving in to a desire, or a passion, something he can’t explain but can’t quite contain either.

It’s a kiss like it used to be, before.

With his eyes closed, Xabi pretends, for just five seconds, that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be; he pretends he never left and that this is his home, his boyfriend, his life. He pretends he’s not borrowing everything from Fernando.

“Hmm,” he hums against Stevie’s mouth, and pulls away slightly. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Stevie eyes him suspiciously, but Xabi can see that sparkle that says he’s turned on and won’t back down now. “You _are_ sick.”

The Spaniard smirks. “Not sick, darling,” and he bites on Stevie’s ear, feels the other man’s body shuddering against his, his fingers pressing hard on his back. “Just kinky. And very, _very_ horny.”

 

x-x-x

 

When they’re done, Fernando is left so physically and mentally drained his eyelids fall shut and he simply blacks out. He wakes up in a startle hours later and realizes night has already fallen outside.

Damn it. Stevie is going to eat him alive.

He turns his face to the side and finds Daniel curled up next to him; the duvet wrapped tightly around his body, his features wrought deep with an expression. He looks haunted even in his sleep. Fernando considers waking him up, but he’s not sure being awakened would exactly spare Daniel of his misery. 

He still doesn’t know what to think. It was the most agonizing sex Fernando’s ever had. Daniel kept his eyes closed throughout the whole thing, clinging on to his body as though afraid Fernando would run away or vanish. The Spaniard can still feel the spots where Dan had his fingers wrapped possessively burning on his arms. That will surely leave a mark. 

He tried his best to calm his lover, to give him some sense of reassurance or comfort, but it didn’t seem to work. The other man felt pained and with a horrible weight on his shoulders and it didn’t matter how hard Fernando tried to please him, to make him feel good, Daniel just seemed to drift further away from him, lost somewhere in his own head. It made Fernando completely powerless. 

He held Daniel in his arms afterwards until the trembling was gone and his gasps for air didn’t sound like sobs anymore, a soothing hand making circles on the other man’s back while he whispered ‘I’m here’ and ‘I won’t go anywhere’ in between small kisses to the top of his head. He’s not sure Daniel was listening, though. If he was, he didn’t show any signs of response, just lied still on top of him with his face buried in his neck. At some point he fell asleep, though, and Fernando finally breathed out himself.

He felt terrible to be relieved that it was finally over, but the truth is he simply didn’t know what to do. Daniel had never seemed more vulnerable before. He wasn’t even aware that it was possible for Daniel to get like this. Being completely honest, it was a bit of a shock. Like getting a punch to the stomach. All the time while Daniel fucked him, Fernando’s mind kept on drifting away as he wondered what could’ve possibly happened to pull such a strong-minded and resolute person apart that way. It’s not a very pleasant thing to be thinking of while someone pounds into your ass. It wasn’t bad sex, it was just… Really awkward and really, really melancholic. 

He was glad when it was over and Daniel finally dozed off. At least this way, Fernando thought, Daniel can get some rest and maybe relax for a moment. But staring at him as he sleeps now, it really doesn’t look like that’s the case.

There is a hard knot clenched inside his chest and he decides he can’t look at Daniel anymore. Fernando climbs out of bed as gently as possible in his claustrophobic need to get out of there, picks up his underwear and walks out, leaving the door only a crack open behind him. After cleaning up a bit and washing his face, he goes down the stairs, only in his boxers, and takes another good look at the mess. 

The bedroom seemed to have been left intact by whoever turned Daniel’s place upside down. Once the initial shock is over, though, the first floor looks even worse. The only reasonable explanation Fernando can think of is that someone tried to rob the house. They were obviously after something, and by the looks of it, something very specific.

With a pained exhale, Fernando decides to start putting the place in order. Dan certainly didn’t look like he was in condition to do that just yet. 

He chooses to start with the kitchen. It is just as chaotic, but it seems easier. Half of the things are broken anyway. It’s just about collecting all the pieces and throwing them out.

Fernando starts picking up the broken porcelain lying about - plates, mugs, bowls… Daniel’s house was so cool, everything he owned so obviously thought through to detail, that it breaks Fernando's heart to throw it all out. Not even on a madness rampage Daniel would’ve done this to his own stuff. For someone who doesn’t seem to give a fuck about many things in life, he is extremely meticulous about his house. 

Someone else did this, that much Fernando is sure of. 

As he proceeds to collect the pieces and throw them in the trash can - he’s going to need something much larger by the time he’s done with the garbage - Fernando’s mind starts to wander. Maybe he did pick some random guy up, took him home and it went really bad. But... he wouldn’t look sad about it; he’d be pissed out of his mind.

Maybe it was someone he knows.

Daniel has spoken about a few of his friends once or twice. Fernando remembers none of their names, because, well… It wasn’t much of his concern before. But now he wishes he’d paid more attention.

Over the counter, next to the stove, he finds a bowl turned upside down. It seems to be intact, a finding that causes Fernando to celebrate a little inwardly; in amidst this kind of mayhem, you gotta appreciate the little wins. He picks it up to put it back in the cabinet and…

What he finds underneath it makes Fernando’s heart skip a couple of beats. There’s a white powder split into four very narrow lines. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what this is, even if he’s never tried it himself. Suddenly everything starts to make more sense.

He leaves the bowl aside, staring intently at the coke spread before his eyes with a sense of disappointment that is greater than anything he’s ever felt before. He knows the story, about how Daniel needed an intervention years ago and ended up in rehab for months after nearly dying from an overdose. Fernando doesn’t have to have lived through that turbulent phase of Daniel’s life to know the meaning of finding that thing in his house. 

“It’s not mine,” a coarse voice speaks from behind him, startling Fernando out of his thoughts. He turns around to find Daniel wearing a white robe and leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Fernando says, heart pounding like he was just caught doing something wrong when in reality it was the other way around.

“I was trying to. Couldn’t really do it.”

Fernando wants to say something, but can’t really think of anything. This is too overwhelming, he doesn’t know what to do with this information. The whole day has been a hell of a rollercoaster and he’s suddenly feeling very lost, crushed under the weight of everything. He realizes he’s much more involved than he figured, because it’s not just about finding out Daniel is back into drugs, it’s… Something else. Deeper and more personal. He feels betrayed by - well, everything. Life, Daniel, himself. He didn’t sign up for any of this.

Instead of saying something, he just stares, holds Daniel’s eyes, and thinks he looks way too calm for someone who’s just been busted. 

“If anyone finds out about this…” he starts.

Daniel just shakes his head. “Already said it’s not mine.”

“Then whose coke is this?!” he asks - no, he _demands_ , flared up and nervous, because fuck. This can change everything. _Everything_.

Daniel sighs wearily. “Finns’”.

“What?”

“Stephen Finnan.” It visibly pains him to say the name out loud.

The Spaniard frowns. “Isn’t that the guy who -”

“Yeah,” Daniel cuts him off. “He’s that guy.”

Fernando blinks, confused. “But… I thought no one’s heard of him in years.”

“Not until last night.”

“… What?”

Daniel pushes away from the doorway and walks into the kitchen, stopping few feet away from Fernando, pointedly not looking at him. 

“I received a call last night, from Finns. He was here, in Liverpool - is here, I don’t know. We met, had a very long conversation, I invited him over -”, Fernando swallows down hard at this part, “- he stayed the night, and then… I woke up to the sound of my house being thrashed down. He did this. Broke everything.” The Dane kicks a little piece of glass and it disappears underneath the counter.

“Why would he do that?” Fernando asks, uncertain.

“Maybe because I took his stash,” Dan shrugs. “I went through his stuff when he was in the shower and -”

“Oh, Dan…” The Spaniard shakes his head slowly, already figuring out the rest of the story.

Daniel’s head snaps up like a thunder and he’s suddenly all fired up. “Well, what did you want me to do? You didn’t see what he looked like. He was horrible, Fernando. Like he was sick or starving or… Dying. I knew what he had in that bag. I couldn’t just pretend I didn’t care.”

He also heard from Stevie about the part of the story where Daniel and Steve, or Finns, or whatever it is that they call him, were together and Finns had refused to go to the clinic. He went missing ever since, something that Stevie never really got into details about, but spoke of with a deep rooted sadness. 

“He never quit the drugs, then,” Fernando concludes.

“Quit?” Daniel shakes his head and lets out a hollow laugh. “He practically married the fucking drugs. And it’s killing him. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t think, just - took it and hid it. I thought maybe when he found out I would’ve come up with a plan for… I don’t know, helping him somehow. But I wasn’t expecting him to be so…” He motions his arms around the kitchen. “He was out of control. It was almost like he was possessed or something. Before he seemed so… Serene. And then suddenly, he... Snapped.” Dan’s eyes are lost and unfocused as his mind seems to play back all the events as he talks. “It was someone else entirely. I had never seen Finns like that before. Not even at his worst he was so… I don’t even know the word. I tried to hold him, get him to stop, he wouldn’t even listen to me. Then he started…” 

Daniel pauses and draws in a shuddering breath. “He dropped to his knees and started begging. Literally begging. Grabbing my legs, crawling behind me… He was crying, drooling, screaming in pain as if there was a knife ripping him apart. I know what withdrawal is like, I was pretty bad at the clinic, during my first few weeks, but… Finns was different, he was… Gone. Just gone. Not a drop of conscience in him anymore. He kept begging and crying and contorting on the floor, and I couldn’t…” He stops his speech abruptly, closing his mouth tightly. His eyes are watery, but not a tear is running down his cheeks. He’s doing a pretty great effort not to cry.

“I couldn’t watch him like that. Couldn’t stomach it. It was… the most pathetic scene I have ever seen. And you know what the worst part is? All I could think of was that… It could’ve been me. If I hadn’t gone to rehab, I could’ve ended up exactly like him. Worse, even. I had no control whatsoever of what I was doing, never had. I overdosed once, but I’m pretty sure I got very near that a dozen other times. It never happened to Finns, though. I would’ve probably gotten myself killed in no time if I had walked out. And I almost did.”

Fernando wants to launch forward, wrap his arms around Daniel and hug the pain away from him. He wants to kiss him and let him know that it’s over. It’s all over. But he can’t. His feet are rooted to the ground and he can’t move. Misery and sadness are so deeply carved in Daniel’s words that it stings to hear him talk. 

“But you didn’t,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can do. “You’re here.”

“But he isn’t.” He finally looks back up at the Spaniard, and for a second there Fernando almost wishes he hadn’t. “He isn’t because I gave him back his stuff and let him go. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I let him leave. Do you understand what I did, Fernando?”

“Daniel, it’s not your fault he got to that point.”

“No, but it’s my fault if he’s lying in a gutter right now. If he drops dead tomorrow or the day after that, or in ten years, it will be my fault. Because I had him _right here_ and I wasn’t strong enough to do anything!” His voice escalates as he speaks until it becomes a scream contained behind greeted teeth. “I was disgusted by him. I was pitying myself instead of him! How could I let a man in that condition walk out like nothing happened?! And it was not just any man, it was Finns!”

“What would you do, Daniel? You couldn’t tie him up and keep him here against his will.”

“I damn well could! And he would thank me one day! I could’ve fucking saved his life!”

“He’s not dead.”

“Not yet!” He punches the counter in the middle of the kitchen with such strength it makes everything on top of it bounce. Fernando shuts his eyes for a second, tries to get his shit back together; he’s not the one who’s allowed to lose control here. “Fuck…” the Dane mutters, pressing his reddening and trembling fingers against his forehead. “I should’ve done something. I can’t believe I just let him go.”

“He made his own choice,” the Spaniard tries again, as softly as possible.

“He was in no fucking condition to make his own choice. His stupid choice three years ago left him like that, to begin with. What would you do? If you were in my place?” _I’d fucking beat you until I got some sense back into you_ , Fernando thinks, but doesn’t voice it out to the other man. Daniel continues, “What would you do if Stevie was like that?”

Stevie. Jesus Christ, Stevie. Fernando completely forgot about him.

“I don’t know,” he says, not entirely honestly because he knows he’d probably freak out as well. But it’s too hard to even imagine something of that magnitude. “I can’t… Picture Stevie in that kind of situation.” _I can picture you_ , he means to say, but doesn’t, because this doesn’t have to be any more complicated than it already is.

“Damn right, you can’t. Because Stevie is a fucking role model of perfection, isn’t he? You haven’t got a fucking clue what it feels like to see someone you love turn into a complete waste of air, Fernando.”

_Someone you love._

The words echo inside his skull. It doesn’t hurt, but it makes him uncomfortable. It’s a comprehension; this man, this Finnan - Daniel loves him. Still loves him. This absurd sadness that seems to have swamped him, that’s what a broken heart looks like. That’s love, shattered to pieces.

“It doesn’t matter that I can’t imagine,” he says. “I can see you right now.”

Daniel breathes out hard and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m not at my best right now.”

“It’s ok.” That’s when an idea occurs to him; it’s not much, probably won’t work, but maybe it will help to put Daniel’s mind at peace. “You know, why don’t we… Why don’t we go looking for him?”

Daniel frowns. “What?”

“Yeah, I mean. I know it’s probably a stupid idea and it’s very unlikely that we’ll have any success, but… If we split up - you can tell me a few places that you think he could’ve gone to. Liverpool is not that big, you know? There are only so many places he could be, assuming he’s still here. And if he’s not or we can’t find him, then at least we tried. At least you’ll know you did something. Right?” he finishes his exposition with a hint of hopefulness in his interrogation.

Daniel considers it for a moment. “It is silly,” he agrees, and Fernando’s momentary enthusiasm dies out. “But… I’d like that. Let’s do it.”

“Good,” he nods, finally approaching Dan. He touches his arm, squeezes it lightly and smiles, as reassuringly as he can, considering he’s not at all certain of anything at this point himself. “I’ll do whatever I can. Promise.”

Daniel lifts a hand to touch his face, his thumb caressing Fernando’s cheek, finally looking him in the eye with fondness. “Thank you,” he says.

Fernando just shakes his head. “Let’s get dressed, then.”

“Yeah.” Daniel lets go of him, turns around and walks out of the kitchen.

Fernando takes a second to fill his lungs with air properly.

_Stevie_.

His relationship feels a lot like the Titanic in its last hours right now. Fernando can almost hear the band playing as it goes down. If there was any chance of putting things right with Stevie, well… That ship has sunk.

Fernando considers calling him. But what would he say? ‘Sorry, honey, I spent the day with Daniel and now I’m going to help him out with something. Talk to you later, ok?’ It would be easier to say he’d be dropping by to pick up his stuff the next morning.

He doesn’t want to be unfair to Stevie, but at this point it just seems completely irrelevant He can’t leave Daniel right now. Maybe going to bed with him was taking it a little too far - even if he was in a very bad place and in need of some kind of comfort. There’s no such thing as charity sex. 

Fernando had never had his heart so torn in his life. But it isn’t a matter of choosing, really. He has to do this for Daniel, has to be here for him.

Stevie will just have to wait.

Before following Dan to find his clothes and get ready for what the rest of the night will save for him, though, Fernando sweeps the white powder from the counter all to the palm of his hand and throws it in the sink, turning on the water for a moment just to make sure it all goes swirling down the drain.

There. Now he can go.

x-x-x

Xabi is drifting.

Exhaustion takes over his body in a blissful wave. His breath is not completely even yet - his parted lips are still drawing the air in as his chest rises and falls in a rhythmic manner. The little sounds of Stevie’s house settle around him in a strange, continuous music. It’s an orchestra of domesticity: the humming of the electronics, the rustling of the drapes, the water in the pipes. It’s so… relaxing.

Stevie’s hard breathing next to him feels incredibly familiar and comforting at the same time it is terribly unsettling. Xabi can’t tell what he wants more: if to run away screaming or to stay here forever. He stumbled into someone else’s life and doesn’t really know how to negotiate it.

“So,” Xabi starts, when the silence becomes too much for him. “This is what it feels like to be Fernando Torres,” he says as the realization dawns on him. Only Fernando probably doesn’t wake up with that same sense of rush indicating he’s running in borrowed time.

Stevie, sitting next to him with his back against the headboard, shifts a little in his place. “No, it isn’t.”

“Really?” he asks. “Then what does it feel like to be him?”

“Probably like having Daniel’s tiny cock up your arse.”

Xabi rolls his eyes and turns to Stevie’s side on the bed, leaning on his elbow to lift his torso. “Are you serious? After everything we just did here, you’re still thinking about that?”

Stevie looks down at his own lap, covered by the sheets. “I’m sorry, Xabi, I can’t turn it off.”

“Well, don’t tell me you were thinking about him while we -”

“No. Not during. Just… Now. You mentioned him.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… You know what? Doesn’t matter. Just stop thinking, Stevie.”

“How?”

With a long sigh, Xabi sits up and then straddles the Englishman, settling down on his lap. Xabi puts his hands on the other man's shoulders and gives him a little shake. “Look at me,” he says. “I’m here. Whatever you need to do, just do it. But don’t think about him.”

“It’s easier said than done.”

“No, it isn’t, Steven. You just have to want it. You have a naked man sitting on your lap right now,” he points out, cocking him eyebrow an as if to prove his point.

Stevie frowns. “You do realize you’re not making it better, right?”

Exhaling in frustration, Xabi decides to try a different approach. “Ok, so… If you want to think about him, then think on the bright side.”

“What’s the bright side of being cuckolded?”

“Really, if you repeat that just one more time -”

“I’m sorry,” Stevie says. “I won’t.”

Xabi is starting to get annoyed by this. He understands Stevie’s upset, but he’s not going to be a shoulder for him to cry on over Fernando. Xabi is a very proud man and even though he is making lots of exceptions for Steven, he’d still like to keep a little bit of his dignity, if that’s possible.

“Think about how I bet you never had sex with him the way we just did, on this bed.” Xabi grins. “Doesn’t matter how many times he sleeps with Daniel -” Xabi notices a little twitch on the corner of Stevie’s eyes, but decides to ignore it “ - you’ll always have that. It’s like a gift to your memory, a revenge that lasts forever.”

Slowly, a little grin breaks its way onto Stevie’s face. “Well…” he starts. “I have to tell you… Last night?” Stevie arches up his eyebrows. “It was pretty awesome.”

Xabi presses his eyes to slits. “Is that a challenge, Gerrard?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Are you feeling challenged?”

“I am very competitive.” Stevie chuckles. “How awesome is pretty awesome?”

“A lot of awesome.”

“How long do we have?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does that mean he could walk in on us any minute now?”

“Pretty much,” he says, but the playful smile doesn’t falter; he’s game.

“What will you do if he gets home?”

Stevie purses his lips thoughtfully. “Hide you under the bed. In the closet. Or maybe you could climb out the window.”

“Hmm,” Xabi bites his lower lip. “Challenging _and_ dangerous, then. I like the way you think, Gerrard.” The Spaniard leans forward and places a kiss on the other man’s lips, then another one, and another, and moves his hips just a little, smirking with satisfaction as he hears a little suffocated whimper escaping Stevie’s mouth.

“Are you up for it?”

“Oh, baby,” Xabi says, letting his hands slide down Stevie’s chest and stomach. “I’m always up for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw this and couldn't stop thinking about this story. Hahaha OMG, TORRES IS SO OBVIOUSLY IN LOVE WITH STEVIE I CAN'T EVEN. Sorry to break it to you, pal, but it seems you and Alonso have both lost your spot to Suárez.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please excuse my mistakes! I hope you enjoy this chapter. :) Feedback is much appreciated!

Fernando stopped checking his watch hours ago.

Keeping track of time was only making him anxious and more consciously aware of his own exhaustion. He’s been wandering around the city under the drizzle for so long the water has already penetrated the thick layers of wool and fabric covering him; he’s shivery to the bones and the part of him that isn’t cold is completely worn out. Ratiocinating has become a challenge. 

The Spaniard went from pub to pub to diner to hotel to the eventual dirty alley where junkies gather to do whatever junkies do. He got offered a shoot, a drink and a blow job, but no sign of Finns. 

Daniel’s covering the other side of Liverpool and Fernando suspects his luck is just as dire; he hasn’t heard from Dan since they parted ways at his house. Fernando wasn’t exactly hopeful about their quest, but now that even that tiny ray of optimism has been put out, he can’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

When his legs start threatening to give in and he can barely feel the soles of his feet anymore, Fernando notices - perhaps with a lot less apprehension than he should - that he’s got no idea where he is. Daniel gave him a region to search through, a few directions, and sent him on his way. He walked and walked and walked and now he thinks he never saw this part of the city before in his life. It could be just that he’s too tired, though, which doesn’t exactly make anything better.

That’s it. The search is over.

Just as Fernando’s about to turn around and go after a taxi, he lays eyes on this tiny little pub he probably wouldn’t even notice if his eyes weren’t trained for that particular kind of hell hole tonight. 

What the hell. He’s already here anyway. It can’t hurt anymore than it already does to try.

Fernando breathes in the hot and thick air inside as soon as he opens the door, deliberately choosing to ignore the smell of alcohol, onions and something like old winter coats kept too long in the closet in order to welcome the warmth instead. 

There are maybe ten souls inside, mostly sitting by themselves with a pint or two in front of them; not one turns to look at him. They all seem to be just as tired as he is and about twice as miserable. Strangely enough, he doesn’t feel that out of place. Not tonight, anyway.

Fernando takes very little time observing before going straight to the bathroom - like Daniel advised him to. He would rather not know but can’t avoid wondering how many public bathrooms Dan has visited in his life with the same sort of intention as Finns would, but he follows the orders nonetheless. And, just like every other place he’s been to tonight, he finds nothing but empty hopes and dry vomit. That’s definitely the last of it, then.

Sighing heavily and feeling every muscle in his body aching, Fernando turns to leave. His eyes catch his reflection on a broken mirror on the wall and he stops to inspect his complexion; yeah, just as awful as he imagined. The drawn down curve on his lips and the marks around his eyes add at least ten years to his features. His hair is wet and sticking out in all directions. He combs it down a little with his fingers, but it doesn’t improve much.

He’s not at all looking forward to going home, but the thought of his very warm, very soft bed has never been more alluring before, and it’s with that in mind that he walks out of the bathroom with purposeful steps to make it to the exit and find a goddamn taxi. This day needs to be over right now.

His determination dies abruptly, though, because as soon as the bathroom door falls shut with a bang behind, Fernando sees him.

Sitting by the bar, swallowed up by a big dark coat, with a pint in front of him, is Finns. He seems very different from what Fernando saw on the pictures, but it’s definitely him. Skinnier - _incredibly_ skinnier - paler and with shorter hair. If Fernando didn’t know the story, he’d mistake him for some terminal disease patient - which is not so far from reality after all. He certainly looks like someone whose best days are left behind, rather than lying ahead. 

Daniel did warn him about what he’d find, gave him detailed descriptions of what Finnan was wearing and what he looked like, but this… This is worse than he expected, Fernando has to admit. A lot worse. Now he finally begins to understand why Daniel was so desperate after all.

His first instinct is to duck, hide, call Daniel and wait for him to show up. Finnan doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. But then… 

Then Fernando feels oddly drawn to that man. He wants to talk to him, to tell him Daniel has been running up and down the city looking for him and how can he be so inconsiderate? 

He really shouldn’t say anything, it’s none of his business, but it’s just stronger than him. He needs to see this Finnan guy, who bent Daniel Agger so hard, from up close. He's curious, if anything else. Bracing himself for courage, Fernando approaches him. 

He clears his throat, his voice harsh against the stillness, but Finnan doesn’t even move. It feels too much like trying to talk to a wax figure, and a ghostly one at that; Finns doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, his breathing is barely noticeable. 

Obviously, he is stoned. Perhaps more than just stoned. You can see it in the whites of his eyes, which are actually more of a glazed pink under the flickering yellow light, in the way his eyelids hang sluggishly at half-mast. What is he even going to say to a man in that state? 

Fernando looks away, at the rest of the people in there, still not paying any attention to him, and decides to try again. He pulls the air in deeply and says, “Finns.”

The man blinks several times before slowly turning his face to him. He’s completely glazed over, only half present. His lips are pale and dry, the skin all cracked up; there’s dry blood around his nostrils as well, and Fernando knows he’s got nothing to do with this - he keeps repeating it in his head, like a mantra - but this scene, right here, would break Daniel’s heart a little bit more, and he just wants to shake Finns up and snap him out of it.

Finns stares at him for long seconds and Fernando’s not sure he’s even aware of what’s going on until he says, “Daniel sent you here?” He turns back to his pint, picks it up and takes a large gulp before nearly dropping it back on the counter, like his arm can’t even sustain the weight of the glass.

“Sort of,” Fernando replies. “I offered to come, actually. I’m -”

“I know who you are,” Finns grins softly. “You’re Stevie’s boyfriend.”

Fernando swallows dry and tries hard not to blush. It would be stupid to be made embarrassed of his indiscretions by a junkie. “I’m here as Daniel’s friend,” he says, curtly, and retrieves his phone from his pocket. The moment his fingers start hovering over the screen, Finns’ hand grabs his wrist, squeezing it tightly with a strength Fernando would’ve never thought he could muster.

Finns is staring at him with severe creases between his eyebrows, looking much more alive now, however distant his eyes still seem to be. “What are you doing?” he asks, sharply.

“I’m calling Dan.”

“No, you’re not.” Finns squeezes his wrist even tighter.

“You’re hurting me.” He can probably free himself and take on Finns with a hand on his back, but the man looks so fragile he’s afraid to move too brusquely and break a bone or something.

“Put the phone away.”

Fernando considers him for a moment and decides to oblige; defying him now would probably not be very wise. It’s like dealing with a scared animal: if he’s too aggressive, Finns might just run away and hide again. “Ok,” Fernando says, and pulls his arm to free his wrist, putting the phone back in his pocket and raising his palms up in surrender.

Finns drinks again from his pint.

“Daniel’s looking for you,” he tries, calmly. “Right now, he’s… somewhere, trying to find you. We’ve been tearing this city apart for hours.”

“There’s a reason why he hasn’t found me yet.” He pauses. “I’m very good at hide-and-seek.”

“Look, Finns… Can I call you Finns?” Finns just shrugs. Fernando takes it as a yes. “Ok. Finns. Daniel is really worried about you. He’s dead worried, really.”

Fernando thinks he sees something like sadness crossing Finns’ eyes, but it’s just a split second before it becomes lifeless again. “Worry wears down,” he says. “It’ll pass. It’s for the best that he doesn’t find me. I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. It was a mistake.”

Fernando silently agrees with him, but decides not to voice it. Daniel would never forgive him if he did. Whatever it is that they have, Daniel and Finns, it is _none of his business_. He’s only lending a hand to a friend, even if it strangely feels like much more.

“Are you saying you don’t want me to tell him you’re here?” Finns doesn’t answer. “You do realize that I can’t do that, right? Daniel would never -”

“What? Forgive you?” Finns lets out a really hoarse noise and it takes a moment for Fernando to realize it’s not a bad cough, but a snarky laugh.

“Well… Yes,” he replies, a little shy, not really getting what’s so humorous about it.

Finns takes a shaky intake of breath, and lets it out slowly. “I think you should go now. This is no place for a precious thing like yourself.”

Fernando refrains from rolling his eyes. “Daniel only wants to help you,” he insists.

“I can’t be helped,” he says. “I missed that stop. Can’t go back now.”

“I know it’s hard, ok? I get it. It seems impossible. But you should look at Daniel. He’s better now, right? If you just give him a chance to -”

“Stop right there.” Finnan’s voice rises above his now, as he’s beginning to sound annoyed. He turns on his stool to face Fernando and the Spaniard suddenly feels very small under the scrutiny of this man. Despite the apparent fragility, Finns’ personality expands to tower above Fernando, a strong, fierce presence that is the perfect opposite of his physical weakness. “Before you waste anymore of your saliva, I should warn you that Daniel already gave me that lecture last night. I’ve heard it all. If he couldn’t talk me into it, then you’re definitely not going to succeed, mate.”

“Daniel really cares about you,” he says. “Don’t you care that you’re breaking his heart?”

“His heart, _Fernando_ ,” he starts, pronouncing every syllable of his name very carefully, savoring the letters; it sounds strange on his accent, Fernando thinks. It's dripping irony and he’s not sure whether it’s intentional or not. “Is already broken. What he needs right now is not me. I’ll just keep destroying him until there’s nothing left. What he needs is someone to mend it.” He stops for a spell. “You’re his… something. Whatever it is that you are. But you care about him, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then listen very carefully to me.” Finns leans forward a little and peers into his eyes in a completely uncomfortable yet totally unavoidable manner. “Daniel is too stubborn to understand that it’s about time he moves on. He’s been living under my shadow for years. And that has to stop.”

“You make it sound so simple. It’s not easy to move on from someone you love as much as Daniel loves you, especially since -”

“Since I’m dying. Is that it?”

“No,” Fernando shakes his head. “It’s not what I was going to say.”

“But it’s what you’re thinking. I’ve seen that before - the way you look at me. That’s pity. My days may be counted, but you don’t get to feel better than me because of that.”

“What? I don’t -”

“Yes, you do, _Fernando_.” He cringes internally at the sound of his own name. It’s acrid and quite annoying, to be honest, but Fernando presses his lips tightly together and swallows down his protest. “You think you care more about him than I do because you’ve been running this city after me while I’m trying to hide from him. Do you think you know what’s best for him? I can take Daniel giving me that sort of speech, but not you. You’re nothing to me. You don’t get to guilt me into this because you haven’t got a fucking clue. You, _amigo_ , don’t get to judge me.”

Fernando has to flicker his eyes away from Finns for a blink, down, to his own hands, then back up, because… He really was judging him. A little bit. Still is. 

“I’ve met people like you my whole life. You look at someone like me and you feel sorry, immediately starts thinking that you know the whole drama of my life. You don’t. None of you do.” He pauses. “I don’t really care about what you think of me, but you obviously mean a lot to Daniel. And it’s just because of that that I’m still talking to you, and you should listen to me when I say that I’m not good for him. I’m a bad influence; I’d only bring the demons back into his life. It’s why I left the first time years ago and it’s why I can’t stay now. Daniel’s not going to understand that, but you can. Even a judgmental prick can be reasonable.” Fernando almost rolls his eyes, but doesn’t, and Finns continues. “Just because I can’t be fixed, it doesn’t mean I have to take him down with me. Daniel is lucky that I love him. Really lucky. I love him too much to wish him the same I had for myself.”

Well. How do you argue against something like that? Fernando is both amazed and scared at how much sense Finns makes even though he’s completely high. He doesn’t know whether he should take it under consideration or not - but he sure as hell is right. How do you weight the opinion of a junkie so clearly under the influence? How do you deny anything he says when he’s so full of reason and knowledge?

Fernando feels awfully juvenile and inexperienced here, before this Irish bloke. He’s talking about rightness and responsibility when all Fernando can think about is love and broken hearts. It’s maturity against naivety. He knows nothing of life, he realizes. Nothing about nothing. Finnan has a stronger commitment to Daniel, regardless of having spent three years away from him, than Fernando’s ever had maybe to anyone in his entire life. 

Finnan is committed to letting Daniel live a good life, even if that means not being with him.

It certainly puts things under perspective.

“I’m a black hole in Daniel’s life,” Finns starts again when he doesn’t reply. “Daniel thinks he’s better, but he’s only better because he doesn’t have me to twist him up again. There was nothing he could’ve done for me back then, there’s even less now. I’m gone. I’m dead. Even you know that and you just met me. It’s just a matter of time. And I’ve accepted that. But Daniel… He keeps chasing something that’s not here anymore. He’s got to let me go. I’d be nothing but disappointment to him and that would lead to frustration and… quite possibly to something worse.” He stops, drinks from his glass again. “That is why you can’t tell him you've found me. Do you understand that? Don’t let him know, forget you even met me. If you really care about him, if you want to do something good for him, let me get out of his life.”

He gets it. He really does. Or he thinks so, anyway. Finns is right, he is a liability. But still… It’s not Fernando's case to decide. “You’re asking too much of me,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t betray his trust.”

“It’s not about trust, kid, this is about whether you want Daniel to have any shot at happiness again. If you call him here, I’ll refuse to go with him and if he forces me… It won’t be pretty. Either way, he ends up hurt. This is the only opportunity for a clear cut. It’s a good a chance as he’ll ever get to turn this page once and for all and move on.”

Fernando has to sit down on a stool, because damn this. Damn Finnan. Damn his stupid idea to ever stop to talk to him. He should’ve just called Daniel and let him work things out. He’s got no right deciding what happens next to either of them. It’s not his life, not his story. He’s here merely by accident. How can that guy who’s never seen him before push that kind of responsibility towards him? How can he speak of big words such as _future_ and _happiness_ with him? Jesus Christ, Fernando doesn’t even know what the hell he and Daniel are doing together! They could break apart tomorrow and never come near each other again in that way. They're not boyfriends, not even the closest of friends. Fernando’s got no right to make that call.

He hasn’t felt this distant and detached from Daniel in weeks, ever since they… Became involved more than just professionally. All that sense of proximity and comfort is gone; Daniel’s but a stranger to him now. All the things he doesn’t know about the Dane, all the bits of his past, the parts of his history that Fernando is ignorant of - it all stretches out to become an insuperable gap between them. He wishes he’d never gone to his house. He wishes he’d just taken Pepe’s ride and gone home to beat the crap out of Stevie or just hug him and cry, because that’s exactly what he wants to do right now.

He’s a frightened little child. 

“I can’t… I can’t do that. You can’t ask me to do that.”

“Well, too late, pretty boy,” Finns says, downing the rest of his drink. “Are you going to let me go or are you going to play cop and keep me here while you wait for back up?”

“How can you be so high and make so much sense?”

Finnan laughs. “See how dangerous I am?” With a little bit of effort, he gets to his feet and manages to stay up without leaning on the counter. Fernando’s seen people in their 90s who look healthier and more capable of taking care of themselves than Finnan does right now. “I have to go. I’ll be out of the city in no time. I can’t ask you to promise me that you won’t say anything because you owe me nothing, but… If you care for Daniel…” Finnan lifts his eyes to meet Fernando’s; it sends a cold shiver all the way up to the back of his skull. The man looks suddenly very sober and it bothers Fernando to no end that he can’t tell what the color of his eyes actually is - but it’s heavy and aged beyond his years. “Don’t tell him.”

Fernando thinks he should stand up and block his way. Get his phone and call Daniel. He should push him back down on that stool, make use of his height and fitness and not let him get up. What he finds himself doing instead is saying, “Ok.” 

One little word that means so much. It’s Daniel’s past and also his future in two letters. Not his to decide, but Finnan is right. He’s absolutely right. And maybe Daniel doesn’t have the clarity to realize that because he’s emotionally involved, because he loves that man. But he doesn’t. He’s an outsider looking in and from where he’s standing… Finnan may be a junkie, but he sounds saner than all of them put together.

The other man smiles at him - it’s sweet and grateful and for just a second Fernando can see a shadow of what his former self used to be, a hint of a long gone charm that almost - just almost - explains how Daniel could fall so hard for him.

He’s good with his words, that’s for sure.

“Take care of him.”

With that, Finnan turns around and wobbles his way out of the pub, disappearing into the night.

x-x-x

The good thing about low key pubs is that no one asks questions. Fernando’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had so far, but every time he slams his hand down on the counter, another one is promptly brought to him. The bartender barely looks him in the eye. This is great, he thinks. He could stay here forever. Well, maybe not forever, but certainly for the rest of the night. 

This is a judgment-free environment. A communal glass house. There will be no one throwing stones. For as long as he’s here, he doesn’t have to live up to his screw-ups, not to Daniel, not to Stevie.

Stevie.

He’s ignored five calls from Stevie already. He laid his phone in front of him and merely slides a finger across the screen to send the calls into voice mail. His boyfriend keeps on calling every twenty minutes or so, but hasn’t left any messages yet. 

He doesn’t have a good excuse to give Stevie. Not that staying here for another one or two hours will magically give him an alibi, but the drunker he gets, the less he cares about that. It’s the whole point.

The phone call he dreads the most, though, is yet to happen.

It’s been almost two hours since he allowed Steve Finnan to walk out the door. Two pints and twenty minutes after that, Fernando had a deep guilt crisis and ran out to try and catch him again. The man could barely stay on his feet, but sure as hell there was no trace left of him anywhere. If he went somewhere to drop dead, he made sure to pick a spot no one would ever find. 

Right now, several doses of alcohol later, Fernando’s not even certain anymore if the whole thing really happened. It feels as though he hallucinated the entire interaction he had with Finns; the bloke was just a product of a tired and conflicted mind.

That’s what he’d like to believe, anyway. Surely it makes him less of an asshole if he didn’t actually allow the guy to walk away.

How in God’s name did he get to this point, he asks himself. He fucked things up with Stevie to put things right with Daniel and then he went on to fuck things up with Daniel as well, and now he doesn’t know how to face either of them. He could just lie, of course - he’s getting rather good at that, and at looking earnestly vexed by accusations that are entirely true. Fernando never pegged himself as a good actor but, as it turns out, he’s quite the artist. But it wears you out to lie all the time and Fernando doesn’t know how long he can keep this going before he ends up broken. 

When he finishes his drink, his phone rings again, and he’s about to find out how strong his resolve really is.

Fernando holds back a breath as he reads Daniel’s name on the screen.

He picks it up, stares at it for a moment too long, and then finally answers. “Hey,” he says, trying his best to sound sober.

“Where are you?” Daniel asks, voice low and tired, probably battered by hours and hours of fruitless search.

“Uhm… Some pub.” He looks around, trying to find anything to identify it. There’s a little wooden plate hanging from the ceiling over the bar saying ‘The Hammer’. “The Hammer, I think.”

“Ah,” Daniel says in recognition. Of course he would know this dumpster “Anything?”

Fernando closes his eyes, holds them tightly shut and says, “No,” feeling a bit of a sting somewhere. He’s a horrible, horrible human being. “Nothing.” Selfish and coward and mean. Horrible.

He hears a sigh. “Nothing here either. It’s like he just… vanished.”

“Yeah…” Fernando agrees, starting to feel sick. “It was a long shot.”

“Yeah… I know.”

Fernando swallows down a scream coated in bile. “Are you ok?” he asks, honestly concerned and knowing very well that any answer different from ‘no’ is a blatant lie as well as his fault.

“I will be.”

“Do you need… Do you need me to stay with you tonight?” The minute the question leaves his mouth, he knows it’s a stupid idea. It will make things even more complicated at home and he’ll likely end up confessing his sins to Daniel. But what the hell… He can’t stay an alien to the situation just because it’s uncomfortable to him.

He is already preparing for the worst when Daniel says, “No.” To a certain extent, it’s a surprise. “I mean… Thank you, but I just… I need a moment. I think I need to be by myself tonight. I wouldn’t be the best company and it wouldn’t be fair to you,” he adds.

_It wouldn’t be fair to you._ Fernando doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. If Daniel decides to beat him with a stick, it still won’t be unfair, and it makes him even worse to know that. But he can sympathize with the need for loneliness. Things are way too confusing right now, for all of them, and sometimes the best remedy is just to sit by yourself and let the turmoil die out on its own. Fernando would take the opportunity, if he could. Too bad he’s got nowhere to go.

“I understand,” he says. 

“But thank you, Fernando. Honestly. For everything. I asked a lot of you today and you were a really good friend.” _Shut up, shut up, shut up_. “I really appreciate it.”

God, this is so hard… What’s the point of being drunk if it’s not making his life any easier?

“Whatever you need, Dan,” he says. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, just… Give me call. I’ll be… home, I suppose.”

“How much trouble are you in?”

Fernando sighs. “I have no idea. A lot, I guess.”

“Do you need me to… I don’t know, say something? Do you think he’ll believe it if I tell him you were just helping me out?”

Fernando falls into a helpless, depressing wave of laughter. Whether it’s Daniel’s complete ignorance of the truth and willingness to help him with Stevie or the proposition itself that he finds amusing in a total sadistic sort of way, he doesn’t know.

“I don’t think that would make a difference. He’d probably just punch you. Besides… It wouldn’t be entirely honest either.” He makes a pause. “I’ll handle Stevie. Don’t worry about that.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. We have… things to discuss.”

“Ok,” Daniel says. “Go home then. That place is really dire.”

He smiles; little does Daniel know about how much he’s appreciating the atmosphere. “I’ll do that.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Dan.”

He hears the click on the other side and exhales heavily. It’s not that he’s Madre Teresa or anything, but he’s never felt like a bigger asshole in his entire life than right about now.

It’s three thirty four in the morning, the clock on his phone informs him as it flashes up to life once more with Stevie’s name written on the screen. 

He silences the mobile, puts it away and asks for another round, as if one more glass will finally be what will fill up the emptiness that revolves the liver and, most importantly, the heart of a drunk man in the wee hours of the night.

x-x-x

Words are coming in and out of focus. He’s been stuck on the same line for…a long time. Possibly hours, although it feels like days. Reading was clearly not the smartest idea to keep himself occupied while he waits for Fernando to get home. The only thing keeping him from dozing off at this point is stubbornness.

It’s already way past midnight and there’s no sign of his boyfriend yet. Stevie’s called Pepe and Carra and no one’s got any idea where he is. Pepe even sounded slightly angry with him, for whatever reason. Like it’s his fault Fernando decided to disappear. Ok, maybe it is. A little bit. But spending the night out is stretching it too far, no matter how you look at it. 

Stevie suspects the one person who knows of Fernando’s whereabouts is also the one person he’d never call. He considered doing so for about ten seconds, but gave up when he realized he wouldn’t know what to do with himself or with Fernando if his suspicions were to be confirmed. Mostly because there’s also a side of him screaming in a rather inappropriate Basque accent that he’s not allowed to get angry, based on how he chose to spend his very own afternoon, and who he spent it with, and doing what, and where. 

Xabi was right. He really is a fucking hypocrite.

After their earlier altercation and Fernando’s subsequent disappearance, Stevie is pretty certain that this relationship is running on borrowed time. Stevie was ready for the final show-down, prepared himself with all the best lines of argumentation for the Homeric fight that had been gathering in their horizon like a storm. But hours and several unanswered phone calls later and the Scouser began to wonder if he shouldn’t be calling the police next. That bubble of fury in his chest slowly dwindled, giving place to preoccupation. 

Regardless of how angry he might be and of how ugly and full of hurtful subtext their fight was, Fernando is simply not one to vanish this way.

Right now, Stevie is actually past the part where he wants to fight and yell and demand explanations. He’s so, so tired and his eyelids feel so ridiculously heavy he’s barely keeping them open, but he needs to know that Fernando’s ok. They can always continue with the bickering in the morning. 

His head drops against his chest and he is gone into dreamland for ten seconds before snapping out of it once more. He spots a blurry shadow by the door, rubs his tired eyes with the tip of his fingers, thinking that he’s now starting to see things, his brain probably parked somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. 

It takes him a long time to realize that it’s not a hallucination. 

“Hey,” his boyfriend greets him with a goofy smile, tumbling his way into the bedroom. Stevie can sense the reek of alcohol from afar. He glances over at the alarm clock on the nightstand - it’s four thirty in the morning already.

The Scouser is quiet for a while, taking some time to convince himself that he’s not dreaming. “How long have you been there?” he asks.

“Not long,” Fernando shrugs. “I noticed you were fighting with your head.” He chuckles. “Thought it was cute, so I just… Decided to appreciate it for a moment.”

He’s stinking, stinking drunk, that much is obvious. Drunk and wet as well. 

“Didn’t you check your phone? I called you.”

“Ah,” Fernando says, fishing his mobile from his pocket, poking it a little and then showing it to Stevie. “Dead, see?”

“I was worried,” he admits, a tad chafed. 

Fernando considers him for a moment. “No need for that.”

“Where the hell have you been?” he questions, not sounding nearly as mad as he would have hours before. Now he just sounds worn out, trying to save the little energy he still has left for this conversation.

Fernando’s eyes move away from him as he breathes in deeply, and then trips over his own legs and falls down on the bed on an ungraceful attempt to sit. 

“That’s _the_ question,” he muses. “Very straightforward. I was… with Daniel.” He looks back up at Stevie from under his lashes as he says the other man’s name, and Stevie… Actually, he’s not at all surprised. But Fernando looks challenging and that sets his teeth on edge nonetheless. 

Stevie closes the book on his lap and puts it aside, calmly. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. At four in the morning, with him completely worn out and Fernando completely wasted. 

“Can’t say I’m shocked,” Stevie replies, frostily but with ease.

“I was helping him.”

He almost laughs, but doesn’t. “Is that how you call it now?”

“No, really. I was helping him trying to find -”

“Fernando, stop. I’m tired, but I’m not stupid, ok? Don’t start making up excuses.”

“Finns.”

Stevie stops at the name. “What?”

“I was helping him find Finns.”

Well, Fernando certainly took his time with his make-up story. But bringing Finns into it is taking it too far. The first thing to cross Stevie’s mind is that he cannot believe Daniel had the courage to bring Finns back from the dead and into their mess. 

“You know,” Fernando continues. “Steve Finnan, the guy who -”

“I know who the fuck Finns is,” Stevie cuts him off. 

“Sorry,” he raises his palms in the air, ironically. “You looked like you didn’t remember.”

Stevie’s mouth thins very visibly as he tries really hard not to bristle. “Don’t bring Finns into this, Fernando.”

“You asked.”

“No one’s heard of Finns in years.”

“Correct,” Fernando nods. “Until last night.”

“… What?”

“He’s here. Was here. I don’t know. Daniel met with him last night. But then he disappeared again.”

“Don’t toy with that, Fernando,” he admonishes, very serious. 

Fernando starts laughing so hard he loses his balance and falls back on the bed. “How could I make something like that up, Stevie? If I wanted to tell some pretty tale, it wouldn’t be that, trust me.” He tries to get up, leaning on his elbows, but gives up and just stays there instead, lying on his back, facing the ceiling. “He called Daniel, they met somewhere, Dan took him home, he spent the night there… I told you something was up.”

Stevie’s knocked out of speech and also maybe breath for a second. Finns? In Liverpool? 

“Where is he now?”

Fernando shrugs. “They had a fight, I think. Daniel didn’t really tell me a lot, he just… Said he took Finns’ _stuff_ ” Fernando uses his fingers to make quotation marks in the air. “You know… And he went bonkers when he found out. Started breaking the whole house. It looks horrible in there, really. Like there was a hurricane or something. Everything is just…” He twists his hands in the air and lets his arms fall down next to his body again. “Dan said Finnan started begging, crawling, crying… Until he couldn’t take it anymore and gave everything back to him. That was when he took off. Dan was…” Fernando pauses. “He _is_ a wreck. I’ve never seen him so miserable before. I had to offer to help out… Somehow. So I offered to help him track Finns down. We split up to take the city apart. Turns out Liverpool is a lot bigger on the inside than it looks.”

“Did you find Finns?”

Fernando cracks out a mirthless laugh and stays quiet for a spell. “No,” he finally says, desolate. “No, we didn’t.”

Finns is a very sensitive subject. Daniel likes to think he’s the only one who cares, holding some false right to the moral high ground as if there’s even one to begin with. But that couldn’t be further away from the truth. 

Stevie never once spoke of Finns in front of Daniel, even though he’s been accused of many things regarding Finns’ departure, some of which Stevie doesn’t even fully understand. To the Dane, his lack of reaction translates as lack of interest. But it’s actually respect. He knows that Daniel’s twisted mind came up with a way to blame him for what happened. And the truth is that, after a while, Stevie started blaming himself a little as well. He never asked Finns to go, like Daniel believes. But he didn’t exactly stop him from leaving either. 

When hell broke lose all those years ago, with Daniel overdosing, Stevie freaked out. Daniel spent days in a hospital bed and, when he finally left, still nothing changed. They went to celebrate his recovery by stuffing their fucking faces with the thing that had put him there in the first place. Stevie couldn’t stomach it anymore. He wanted to punch the fuck out of the two of them and never bothered about making it a mystery. He became harsh and ill-tempered and it was his idea that they should be given an ultimatum. So, in a way, the fact Finns decided to leave was, at least partially, his fault.

Stevie doesn’t like to talk about Finns - doesn’t even like thinking about him, remembering him - because he always, invariably, ends up wondering whether there was anything else he could’ve done. The man just disappeared from their lives. He could’ve died and they’d never even find out. Finns was his friend long before they met Daniel, long before they even had a band. They went to the same school, played football together every Sunday for years. Doesn’t matter how much he regrets it, it’s just not going to change anything - Finns decided to go. It was his choice. Just like it was Xabi’s choice to leave, albeit under completely different circumstances. Daniel can hate him for it as much as he wants, but Stevie knows a thing or two about being left behind by someone you trust and love. He doesn’t dare comparing his situation - ex-boyfriend who was an ambitious arsehole turned slut - with the Dane’s - ex-boyfriend with a serious drug addiction issue - but he respects the feeling. And so he simply doesn’t bring the matter up.

Right now, though, Stevie has very strange split feelings. Part of him is glad to know Finns is actually alive. For a long time he wondered how much he would last, feared he would be buried as an indigent with no family or friends to look out for him. But the weirdest thing is that there’s a part of him worrying for Daniel.

“How’s he doing?” he asks, shyly, looking away from Fernando because his concern is making him embarrassed.

The quaintness of the question strikes Fernando even as inebriated as he is, and he turns his head to give Stevie an odd look before answering. “He’s awful,” Fernando starts. “Sad. Disappointed. Blaming himself. But he wanted to be left alone, so I let him.” They fall back into silence before Fernando continues with a large, fake grin spread on his lips. “So. That was my day. How was yours, honey?” he asks with mock excitement.

“I waited for you,” Stevie answers, and he’s only half lying.

“That must’ve been really boring, then.”

“Why are you drunk?”

Fernando gives him a faint smile. “It was a very bad day.”

They stay like that, not saying anything, each with their own thoughts, losing track of time as they stare into each other’s eyes, for long moments - minutes, maybe - until Fernando rolls around to lie on his stomach and push himself up.

“Well,” he announces. “I’d love to stay here and not speak to you, but I need a shower.” With some effort and a lot of concentration, he gets to his feet, nearly falling over twice before finding some balance. “You can go to sleep now.”

He turns around and walks to the bathroom. Before he can go in, though, Stevie stops him. “Fernando,” he calls and waits ‘till his boyfriend - is he still, really? - turns to him with his eyebrows comically up. “Was that all that happened?”

Fernando ponders over the question for longer than Stevie’s heart believes he should. “Yes,” is what he says, simple as that. “Good night, Stevie,” he adds, and shuts the door behind him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please excuse any mistakes you might find. :) Your feedback is veeery much appreciated, as always! And thank you to everyone still keeping up with this story! You guys are seriously awesome and hearing from you actually makes my day.
> 
> This a very _dense_ chapter. I hope it comes out ok!

Xabi knows there's something off with Stevie the minute he lays eyes on him.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the visit. It is somewhat of a triumph, getting Stevie to come over to his hotel out of his own will. But Xabi’s learned how to read between the lines and past his constant air of brooding. Even for a naturally collected man, Stevie is quiet. His eyes, on the other hand, are oddly edgy.

“Did something happen with Fernando?” is the first thing Xabi asks.

Stevie regards him seriously for a moment, munching over his own thoughts, and then answers with a simple, “No”, before falling back into silence.

They sit side by side in bed for a long time, not saying or doing anything. Stevie is clearly very confused about something. Why he’d think that Xabi’s hotel room is a good place to think is completely alien to the Spaniard, but he decides not to question; it's still better to have him sulking than to not have him at all. 

Xabi is almost falling asleep when he's pulled back into awareness by a kiss. And things escalate pretty quickly from there.

Stevie seems to be soundly asleep when the Spaniard finally disentangles himself to take a shower, but when he walks out of the bathroom, the other man is already up and dressed, standing at the balcony, soaking up the warm sunlight. He still looks just as lost and as awfully serious as when he arrived, but perhaps a little more relaxed.

“You're up,” Xabi says, deciding maybe it’s time to check if he wants to talk again. Xabi’s very much aware that he’s not exactly good at offering advice or comfort, but he can be a good listener, when he wants to.

He also understands that this part - the part where Steven gets upset and looks for consolation in having another warm body next to his and someone to talk to - is out of his jurisdiction. This is Fernando’s job. But he’s also aware that he's partially - _partially?_ Who is he kidding? - responsible for the fact Steven and his boyfriend aren’t exactly on each other’s best sides at the moment. There’s a moral obligation to be fulfilled here somewhere.

Stevie blinks out of his reverie and turns sluggishly to Xabi. His eyes look incredibly bright under the sun; such a deep contrast to the obvious darkness they conceal.

“Meditating?” Xabi asks.

Stevie waits, appears to ponder over something or another, and then, as if hearing the underlined question, says, “Finns showed up.”

Xabi’s eyebrows arch up, surprise evident on his features. He was expecting something to do with Fernando - maybe they'd broken up, maybe he'd admitted to be sleeping with Daniel, maybe Stevie was having another one of his conscience crises, which... Well, that wouldn't make a lot of sense, considering what they had just done in bed. Still, it would be well within the scope of weirdness that has basically outlined their quaint situation since it got reignited a few weeks before. 

But Finns? That he _definitely_ did not see coming. It would've never been his guess as a possible source for Stevie’s glumness. “Finns?”

“Yeah. Two nights ago, I think.”

“Wow,” Xabi gapes. He hasn’t thought about Finns in years. “How’s he doing?”

Stevie shrugs. “I didn’t see him. Apparently he paid a visit to Daniel or something. Rumor has it he’s as good as dead.”

“He never quit the drugs, did he?”

“Not even close.”

“Never thought he would,” Xabi admits. “It was a pretty good indication when he decided to leave instead of going to rehab with Daniel.” 

Those were very troubled times, the months following Daniel’s admission to the clinic and Finns’ departure. Things were chaotic. It probably didn’t help that he decided to pack his bags not six months after that either. But the fact was that The Red Kop was about to start a whole new phase. Once Daniel got out, things would be different. Xabi didn’t think it would be fair to go through the whole readaptation thing only to then announce that they’d have to re-set the band once more. They’d lose a lot more time, whereas with him leaving during Daniel’s rehab, they’d have enough time to find someone else before officially going back to business. He wasn’t going to stay forever anyway, and life started calling him from Madrid. One thing led to another, and, well. 

They were always going to hate him for it anyway, whether it had happened sooner or later. There might be a good argument there for comforting his friends, being a safe port to his boyfriend in what was a very turbulent and doubtful time, but... That would've come to an end as well. Stevie hates him for abandoning them when they felt the most lost, but if he actually stops to think about it, Xabi helped them move on. It was a bit rough, like maybe a slap to their faces to snap them out of their idle anguish, but still. Getting someone new to join the band gave them something to look forward to and work to do, while with him still part of the band, they had mostly just sulked and spent all their time feeling sorry for themselves.

As for leaving, there was really nothing he could’ve done about that part.

“Finns was a very good lad. That’s sad,” he adds, and means it. “Is that what’s troubling you?”

“There are many things troubling me. But I can’t stop thinking about Finns since last night," Stevie says around a forlorn sigh. "I barely slept at all. I keep wondering whether there’s anything we could’ve done for him, before. I was honestly so bloody sick of his shit and Daniel’s attitude that I didn’t even think what it really meant to let him walk. It didn’t occur to me back then that we were signing a death certificate. Maybe we should’ve tried harder.”

Xabi approaches him slowly, places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a little squeeze. “It wasn’t your fault, Steven. It was no one’s fault, really. Finns made his own choice. We couldn’t force him to go to rehab if he didn’t want to. He ran away once, remember?”

“We shouldn’t have let him. Clearly it wasn’t a good choice.”

“Everything always seems obvious once it’s happened, when you can step back and see all the options. But it’s not that simple.”

“It was obvious that he needed an intervention. Maybe if I hadn’t been so goddamn angry I could’ve -”

“Hey.” Xabi comes to stand before him, forcing Stevie to meet his gaze. “Stop beating yourself up for this. It was years ago. You can’t predict what’s going to happen. It’s enough to take care of yourself, you can’t be responsible for anybody else, much less for an adult man. Everyone has to make their own choices, that’s life.”

“Yes,” he agrees, but something very subtle changes on his features. The way Stevie looks at him is suddenly very different; colder. “It is.”

 _Oh_ , the Spaniard thinks. _Right_.

Xabi grins wanly as he realizes how the wind’s turned. He drops his hands from Stevie’s shoulders and takes a step back. “I see. We’re turning this my way now.”

“Not now, Xabier. You have a lot to do with all this.”

“What do I have to do with Finns?”

“Everything! You and Finns have a fucking lot in common.”

“Yeah? And I suppose that means you and Daniel do as well?”

“Actually, yes,” Stevie says, getting visibly more frustrated.

“You mean other than your boyfriend, then?”

The Englishman’s mouth snaps shut so fiercely Xabi almost hears the sound of his mandibles. Steven’s eyes pierce through him like spears. For a moment there, he really believes he’s going to get punched.

Xabi sighs, moves away from Steven and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says evenly. He’s not really sure he means it, but it’s probably best to apologize. “That was low. I just honestly don’t know what you expect to achieve by bringing this up all the time.”

Steven watches him with that quiet fury burning behind his eyes before he speaks again, probably still trying to reign in the surge of anger. “What I expect is to understand.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but it does to me,” his voice grows louder once more. “You don’t see what you’re doing to me, do you? You think because you haven’t got anything to lose, the outcome of this little game you set up here doesn’t make a difference.”

“Game?” Xabi laughs a hollow, nervous laugh that doesn’t sound at all dignifying to his own ears. Steven’s one step away from opening cracks on his poise and he doesn’t like the look of that at all. “What do you mean, I haven’t got anything to lose? I have a career in Madrid, which I abandoned to be here. I have a job to do and a reputation I fought very hard to build, and I left it all behind for - for…” he stutters.

“Yes?” Stevie asks, prompting him to continue. “Go on. For…? Say it, Xabi. That’s exactly what I want you to say. That’s the point of all this. For what? Why did you leave your perfect little life in Madrid?”

“I don’t know!” He nearly shouts now, frustrated. “How many times am I gonna have to repeat myself? I don’t fucking know, Steven!”

Stevie hangs his head low, shaking it very slowly. Xabi takes a deep breath and has to look away as well, chooses to stare out at the unusually golden-lit Liverpool beyond the balcony, beautiful and joyful and so drastically different from the atmosphere in his hotel room right now.

“I found someone good, which I didn’t think I would, after you, but I did," Stevie starts, a quiet anger simmering behind his words. "And right now I am pissing all over my relationship and I don’t even know what for. I wish I could be one of those people who just don’t give a shit. I wish I could be you.” Xabi’s not sure why, but that part kind of stings - but that’s what is often said about the truth, isn’t it? “Or that I had a little Fernando key in my brain that I could turn on and off whenever I wanted. But I’m not like that. And I know I haven’t got any right to be angry, but I am - all the time, in fact. I feel like a bloody walking bomb, you pull on one tiny little wire and I go blowing up all over. I’ve been a jerk to basically every single person I know and I can’t even get myself to feel sorry about it. I’ve become an arsehole 24/7, because I can’t stop thinking - about you, and about him, and maybe I’m just thick-minded, but I can’t process all that. You’ve done my head in, Xabi, _again_. And I don't even know _why_.”

If he says he doesn’t feel bad for Steven, he’ll be lying. He does feel bad. Not sorry, though. He’s not sorry for coming to Liverpool or for anything that’s happened since. This has definitely been the longest week of his life; so many feelings, so many changes. Even for someone as multitasking as himself, Xabi never thought things could twist and turn and move as fast as they did during those seven days he’s spent in English soil so far. So much so that the two years he took completely away from all this mess are now but a distant memory. He can barely remember what a month ago felt like anymore.

A man as smart as him should know that sweeping the dirt to under the rug doesn’t make it go away. They never had a clear cut and Xabi was really just taking a blind shot when he decided to go after the other man in Madrid. It’s not exactly astonishing that things turned out badly after all, when he thinks about it. But it doesn’t make him any less frustrated either. He should’ve known, it’s as simple as that.

Steven, he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand how much all this means to him. Doesn’t think the fact he abandoned everything behind is significant. Steven’s old fashioned; he believes in love above responsibility, in loyalty before opportunities, in creating roots more than in living for and in the moment. He’s a dreamer, while Xabi is a striver. Steven simply doesn’t get it. Perhaps it is too much to ask of him, anyway - to expect him to understand that when a person like Xabi, who sacrificed so much for an ambition, who’s meticulous and calculating and so sure of himself, simply gives in to unsubstantial things such as _feelings_ and _whims_ , it is a big fucking deal. But then again, not many people share that sort of comprehension. 

A career is never going to have the same weight as a boyfriend with whom you share a bed and a home to someone like Steven. Maybe it really doesn’t. But it does to him. The way he sees it, Steven’s not the only one making concessions here, nor is he the only one with something to lose.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Steven,” he says, with a desolate shrug.

“What _I_ want from you? Are you sure you should be asking _me_ that question? If someone’s confused here, that’s me. I was fine before you came back and now I don’t know what end is up anymore!” Stevie rubs his face with his hands and lets out a muffled grunt. “I never got over you. Are you happy to hear that? Never. But I was fine without you. I had a life, a _good_ life, and now I don’t even want to go home anymore. I don’t want to have to face my problems ‘cause I don’t know how to deal with them other than by getting angry over and over and over, and that’s exhausting, Xabi. It’s so bloody exhausting to be angry and jealous all the time… But I just can’t help it. And I don’t even know what the fuck this is all for. What are we doing here? Why did you come back?”

“I never meant to screw up your life.”

“Whether you meant to or not is irrelevant. The fact is, you did. You, Finns… You’re all the same. You just make your own decisions and fuck everything else.”

“I’m not the same as Finns, Steven.”

“The way I see it, you’re both selfish wankers who only care about your own arses.”

“Well, at least I don’t blame other people for my mistakes,” Xabi blurts out, sternly, finally giving in to that annoyance that had been building inside of him.

“Stop acting like a child, Steven, man up a little, will you?" he continues. "I never forced you to do anything. I didn’t put a gun to your head and bring you here, did I? I never asked you to invite me over to your place. When you told me to stay away, I did. You were the one who couldn’t stand back, I gave you all the time and the space you needed. So stop acting like whatever shit happens to your relationship is my fault. You’re a fully grown man who can own up to your decisions. I’m involved, I accept that I took the first step and made all the suggestions, but when you came to me, it was exercising this beautiful thing called _free will_.”

This is certainly not going to help, Xabi knows the minute he stops talking. Not him, certainly not Steven, maybe not even his life with Fernando. But damn it, it had to be said. Steven can be such a spoilt brat sometimes. Xabi doesn’t mind taking on the role of the bad guy - let’s be honest, more often than not, that’s what he is. Not because he’s evil, but simply because he’s skeptical and blunt, something not generally very well perceived by others. He doesn’t even mind being the booty call. But there’s only so much he can take. If Steven’s going to be showing up in his room, then he might as well act like he did it because he wanted to, rather than as though Xabi is folding him like a marionette by pulling on strings at his will.

Xabi takes a deep breath to try and calm himself down and then continues. “Has it occurred to you that the only reason I’m here is you? I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what I aim to achieve, I don’t even know what I expect to come out of all this. All I know is that you are, effectively, at the center of everything. Despite what you might think, I’m not a robot. I’m flawed, I get confused, I hurt people and I get hurt too. I’m not black and white and I don’t always understand myself. I try to, and I really wish I could, but I don’t. I’m just as lost as you are right now, the difference is I’d rather not waste my time worrying about things that will get me nowhere or that can’t be fixed. You and I - we can’t change what happened before, and we can’t predict the future either. So we might as well just enjoy what we have. It’s not supposed to make sense, Steven, it just _is_. So either you want to be here, or you don’t, that’s your call. But I won’t take your little accusations anymore. I accept my part of the blame, but I won’t be taking up on yours too. I just want to be with you now, Steven, that’s all there is.”

“Then why did you leave the first time? One day we were together, the next you were boarding a plane back to Spain. How’s that for wanting to be with me?”

Xabi considers him for a moment. “Sometimes, Steven, love is not the most important thing in the picture.” There’s a flicker of hurt quite evidently outlining Stevie’s features, but he reckons this is something that has to be clarified. “You say that Finns and I are the same, but we’re not. Finns is a junkie who couldn’t quit his drugs. I, on the other hand, just knew that this was not the place for me. And you knew that too, because I never hid it from you.”

“What is that even supposed to mean? You never said a thing.”

“I never said that I’d stay with you forever, I didn’t move in with you, I never told you we’d be together in three or five years’ time. Is that not right? I never made that sort of promise because I knew I couldn’t keep it.” He pauses. “I’m honest with you, Steven. I’ve always been.”

“You think just because you never promised to stay you were being honest? You never said you’d leave either, Xabi! Just like you’re not saying what the hell you want now!”

“I could just stand here and lie, tell you all the things you want to hear, but I won’t. I don’t know what I’ll be doing next month, or even next week, but I do know that, right now, all I want is to end this silly argument.”

“That’s all it is to you. A silly little argument.”

“Oh, God…” Xabi says, burying his face in his hands because, Jesus. Did Steven even listen to anything he said at all? 

“No, don’t ‘Oh God’ me,” Stevie starts again. “You need to get something straight here. I might have just thrown away something fine and great because of you. You come here, you stay for a week and then what? You go back to Madrid like nothing happened while I get to stay back and watch my boyfriend crawl into someone else’s bed. I can’t leave my complications, or whatever it is that you want to call it, outside. Don’t expect me to make anything easy and pretty for you, because you sure as hell haven’t done that for me. And how can you even think that not stating out loud that you weren’t going to stick here forever makes you right?! For fuck’s sake, Xabi, we were together and not _once_ , not for _one little second_ , did you tell me that you were thinking about leaving! And now you come back and you want me to ignore the possible ruin of my entire life for your sake?! What the fuck do you think this is? What the fuck do you think _I_ am?!”

By the end of his rant, Steven’s fuming again, and Xabi simply doesn’t know what to say. He’s put everything he had out there. There’s no way to excuse or explain himself the way Stevie wants him to. That leaves him with nothing else to offer.

After waiting for long seconds for a response and not getting anything, Steven turns around and walks back into the room. Xabi stops by the threshold and watches as he zips up his jeans and then puts his shirt back on.

“You don’t have to go,” he says. “Stay. Let’s… do something, I don’t know. Talk. Or not. Eat. Something. _Anything_.”

“Why?” Steven asks, turning back to face him. “What’s the point? I’ve had enough fighting with Fernando, I’m not going to do that with you as well.”

The Spaniard sighs, wearily. “You overthink, Steven. Sometimes you just have to let yourself go.”

“You know what? Fuck you. Ever since I can remember you keep repeating that shit. _Stop thinking, Steven. You think too much, Steven._ I should’ve fucking thought harder. Maybe if I had none of this would’ve happened. Maybe I would’ve seen your bullshit coming all those years ago, instead of telling myself that I was just fucking _overthinking_ every time I noticed you were trying to slip away.”

“The point is that you can’t control everything. There’s no use trying to. It just gets you hurt.”

“No, Xabi. What gets me hurt is you. How can you make everything sound so simple?”

“Because, it is!” he exclaims in frustration, approaching the other man again. “Just stop thinking, for one second.”

“ _Stop fucking telling me to stop thinking_! Holy fucking Jesus!” He makes a short pause, then forges on. “When this is all over, you just take your stuff and go back to your beautiful flat with your sun-tanned lovers and that’s it. Coming here is just a walk in the park to you. But I stay, Xabi. I’m the one who gets to pick up the pieces and glue it all back together and try to move on.”

“Why are you even here, Steven? Why did you come here today?”

“Because…” Stevie stops, thinks. “I started thinking about all the things we could’ve done to help Finns back then, all the signals that it was going too far that we never saw… I remembered what Daniel was like when he came out of rehab. He kept on looking for Finns, everywhere. Just couldn't accept that he was gone for good. He forced us to take this gig in Ireland just because he wanted to check that Finns hadn't gone back home but his therapist wouldn't let him go unless we were with him or some shit. Daniel was always a prick, but... Finns fucked him up good. And then... Then I thought about you. You fucked me up too, Xabi. In a different way. I never even thought about going after you. I made myself hate you because it was easier. But I started thinking... About whether there was something… I don’t know, something I could’ve done differently that would’ve made you stay.”

“Will it make you feel better if I say the answer to that is no?”

“Not really,” he admits. “Because in the end what I realized is that… It doesn’t matter. What you did, what I did… None of that matters anymore. You left, I freaked out - and freaked everyone else out as well on the process. Then… I fell in love again, and he gave me all the things that you refused to, and he made me so happy, Xabi. So _fucking_ happy. And now… I’m losing him, because I still can’t deal with you. And there’s no way that this will ever feel right, because it’s not fair to him, and you know what? It’s not fair to me either. I deserve you to give a shit, and you don’t. You keep talking about not thinking, but not thinking means not caring, and I can’t _not_ care. And that’s driving me out of my fucking mind.”

It’s strange, Xabi thinks, but he feels awkwardly emotional. He wants to pull Steven into a tight hug and try to give him some sense of reassurance. But he can’t, can he? What reassurance will he give to the other man if he’s got none to give himself? He’s completely honest when he says he doesn’t know what will happen; he really doesn’t.

This is the difficult part, and the part he never really stopped to consider. Getting attached again wasn’t exactly on his plans, he has to admit. But somehow it escaped him and happened while he wasn’t looking. Now what?

If he says he cares about what happens to Torres, well, that will be a lie. He doesn’t. But Stevie is hurting and that’s affecting him much more than Xabi ever thought it would at this point. Except he still wants to kiss him and lay him down on the bed and make love to him until it all goes away. Until it’s just sex again.

“I have to go,” Steven announces as he puts on his jacket. He glances over at him one more time, seems as though he’s going to say something, but changes his mind and proceeds to the door instead. “I’ll see you at the gala.” And with that, he’s gone.

For the first time since he stepped out of that plane at the John Lennon Airport, Xabi hears the little voice of his assistant ringing in his head, saying, _“It’s madness, Alonso. That unfortunately forward hairline cannot be worth all this.”_

He doesn’t necessarily agree with the second part, but the first one is starting to sound truer and truer by the hour. This _is_ madness. 

What the hell was he thinking?

 

x-x-x

Fernando decides that picking out a suit for the gala is the most important thing in the world for today.

He chose two that he thinks are more appropriate and already tried them on with several different combinations of shirts and ties. He thinks he’ll go all back this time - black shirt, black tie. Or maybe no tie at all. But he can’t, for the love of God, pick the suit to go with it.

He completely forgot that the Bill Shankly Awards gala is in one day. He bought the suits a month before thinking ahead of this day and now that it is finally here, he didn’t even remember it. That’s how screwed up his head has been lately. Awards used to be something important to him. Now they’re just… A way of distracting his mind from the really meaningful things. Or from the hangover, anyway. It helps with that too.

He’s been holding the two suits in front of him on the mirror - first one, then the other, than the first one again, and so on - for about half an hour. He likes both of them, it’s why he bought two in the first place, but he can’t single out one. They’re both great suits, each with their own particular qualities; both fit him perfectly well and make him feel good about his looks.

The Gucci one is a classic. It’s a safe and guaranteed choice. It’s elegant, it’s chic, it’s absolutely beautiful, and it brings out the best in him. It has ‘Best Dressed List’ written all over it, like a recipe to success. The Dolce one is bolder. The cut is slightly different and it makes him feel a little wilder, a little more like a rock star. It’s maybe not as elegant or appropriate for the occasion as the Gucci one, but it’s certainly making a statement. If it flops, it flops hard, but if it succeeds, it sends him straight to the top as a definite standout.

It’s too bloody hard to choose between two similar and yet completely different pieces. They both make him happy and fulfilled but he can’t wear two suits at the same time. This needs to be a very straightforward decision.

But what if he regrets it afterwards? What if he gets to the gala and realizes he made the wrong choice and wants to go back home and change? And what if he can’t? Then it will be too late and he'll have ruined his life forever.

… he’s not thinking about suits anymore, is he?

So much for distractions.

“I think I’d go with the black one,” he hears someone saying from behind him. Stevie is leaning on the doorway, arms crossed, staring at him. “But the other black one looks very good too.”

“Hey,” he says, sheepishly. “How long have you been there?”

“Just got here,” he says, and smiles, but not quite. It’s awkward and it doesn’t meet his eyes and Fernando realizes they’re not actually ok yet. Might never be again.

He holds both suits out in front of him, showing them to Stevie. “Gucci or Dolce?”

“Hmmm…” Stevie bites on his lower lip and squints his eyes, feigning thoughtfulness. “I don’t know… This is a very tough decision, Fernando, I can’t possibly make that call for you… It’s very hard to pick between two black suits that look exactly the same.”

Fernando rolls his eyes and turns back to the mirror. “You know nothing about fashion.”

“They’re black suits, Nando. Dolce, Gucci, Marks & Spencer… They all look the same to me.”

“I won’t even dignify what you just said with an answer, Stevie.” He tries both pieces in front of him again. “They have totally different cuts.”

“So?” Stevie shrugs and moves to sit down on the edge of the bed, making eye contact with him through the mirror. “The point is just to look dapper. Either one of them will do the trick. Just go eeny, meeny, miny mo on them.”

Fernando has to laugh at that. “Is that how you picked what you’ll be wearing?”

“I don’t even know what I’ll be wearing. I have ten different suits in the closet, I’m sure at least one still fits me.”

“Right,” he says, hanging the suits on the edge of the mirror and turning back to Stevie. “I forgot I was talking to the guy who wears the same suit for his niece’s baptism and a gala where he’ll be presenting an award.”

Stevie shrugs again. “Totally different people, no one will ever know I’m recycling clothes.”

Fernando laughs shortly again and receives a grin in retribution - a proper one this time. But it’s impossible not to notice the dark shadows under Stevie’s eyes, the deeper frown between his eyebrows. “You don’t look so good,” he comments, softly.

“Didn’t sleep very well,” Stevie replies in the same manner.

Fernando’s eyes flicker away from him for a moment as he feels a pang of guilt shoot through him. “I’m sorry for keeping you up so late last night,” he says.

Stevie considers him in silence. “You didn’t. I stayed up because I wanted to,” he says. “Don’t you have a hangover?”

“Turns out picking suits is good for hangovers, it seems.” Fernando smiles. “Who would’ve thought, huh?”

He watches as Stevie yawns, long and tiredly, before rubbing one of his eyes with his fingers. “You left early today,” Fernando says. He woke up at ten and Stevie’s side of the bed was already cool. In a way, it was probably for the best; Fernando was not at all in shape to hold a conversation, civil or not, with his boyfriend. Stevie’s absence bought him some time to recover, get his thoughts in something at least close to an order. But lunch time came and went and still he hadn’t returned, and Fernando started to wonder if maybe it was a pay back - Stevie was punishing him for disappearing the day before by doing exactly the same. And he couldn’t exactly call him, could he? Their relationship had acquired a lot of bumps and exceptions that were making it so much harder than it should be.

Despite all that, though, Fernando’s actually relieved he’s home.

“Got tired of rolling around the bed. Went for a walk.”

Fernando arches him an eyebrow. “A walk?”

Stevie nods. “A walk,” he repeats.

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” Stevie shrugs. “The park, Albert Dock, Liverpool one, Bold Street, Lime Street, Hope Street… All over.”

“You went for a tour around the city where you were born?”

“There’s always something new to see,” Stevie explains. “I hadn’t been out there in a while. Did you know Café La Luna was shut down? I really liked their coffee.”

“That’s a lot of walking, Stevie,” he points out.

“I had a lot of thinking to do.”

Thinking has become a double edged sword these days, Fernando thinks. Not a very pleasant way to spend his time. “What did you think about?” he asks, tentatively.

Stevie watches him quietly, then sighs. “A lot of things, really,” he says, evasively.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Did you at least come to a conclusion?”

Stevie thinks for a moment. “Only the usual,” he starts. “That I can never see the storm coming until it’s too late and I’ve fucked it all up.”

 _Not so different from myself, then_. Even as distant as they have been lately, they still have so much in common. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic. They barely spend time together, barely stop to have a proper chat. A few hours here and there aside, and it’s all cold silences and distant eyes. They’re both cocking things up and the weird part is that Fernando doesn’t even know how they got to this point so fast. He blinked and suddenly his pretty little life is hanging by a thread.

“Are you fucking something up right now?” he asks, because maybe that’s exactly what they need to be addressing here. But if he can’t get himself to admit it, then how can he expect Stevie to do it?

“I’m always fucking something up, Nando,” he says, with such an obvious hopelessness that it immediately connects to a cord somewhere inside of the Spaniard’s chest. He was so mad at Stevie and so worried about Daniel for the past 24 hours he forgot that he still has feelings for this man.

Steven’s always been a strong character, fierce and alight in the quietest sort of way. It’s something that’s always attracted Fernando about him, from day one. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t have to say a lot, gesticulate or shout to command a room. Sometimes all it takes is a look. He’s never down, never resigns, never gives up. Fernando doesn’t really know how to deal with seeing Steven as disheartened as this.

Slowly, he makes his way to the bed, sits down next to the other man. “Well, then. I guess we’re a match made in heaven.”

Stevie laughs a little, but doesn’t say anything. Fernando has a feeling he knows Stevie is thinking the same thing he is right now - that silences between them were never so strained and full of dents before.

“I got drunk last night because I didn’t want to come home. Didn’t know how to,” Fernando starts, looking down at his own hands. “I wanted to call you and let you know that I’d be staying out late, that it wasn’t just a tantrum or spite. I wasn’t avoiding you, it was just… I couldn’t really leave Daniel. He needed someone there, and it had to be me. But I didn’t think you would understand. I didn’t think you would believe me, anyway, after the fight we had, so… I didn’t say anything.”

“I probably deserved that.”

“You did,” Fernando agrees with a nod. “But isn’t that what couples are supposed to do? Talk. Tell each other where they are. Trust.” The words leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. It’s laughable to expect either of them to trust the other one at this point. “I wasn’t sure what to tell you when I got home, to be honest… So… I got drunk instead and prepared for the worst.”

“I knew you were with him. Whether you had admitted to or not.” He pauses. “But after a while there I started thinking you weren’t going to come home at all.”

“Yeah… Didn’t seem like we would make it through the night, huh?”

Fernando caught himself considering logistics several times during the past night: where would he go to spend the night, what things he’d take with him, how he’d need to find boxes and where would he take all his stuff to… Things like that. After a day that had started with a bright promise of better times, it was a very depressing way to end things. 

“I don’t want to break up, Fernando.” Stevie’s low voice sounds too much like a plea. “Do you?”

Did he?

He turns to face his boyfriend, expectant blue eyes staring at him hopefully. Want is probably not the right word; there’s a growing feeling all around that they will break up, regardless of whatever. They’ve taken this too far and now there’s no way to turn back around. They’re free-falling towards the pit of the well and there’s nothing they can do to avoid the impact, perhaps only stall it. 

But does he _want_ to hit the bottom? Does he _want_ to leave Stevie?

Things deteriorated so fast between them that Fernando didn’t have enough time to fall out of love with his boyfriend. Then how do you break up with someone you love? Someone who, less than four weeks before, had him feeling silly and stupid and hopelessly juvenile because he couldn’t see Stevie as anything other than ‘the one’.

It’s a hell of a lot to process - going from having ‘the one’ to realizing that there is no such thing - in little over three weeks.

“No,” he says, sincerely. “I don’t.”

Stevie looks at him with the same kind of comprehension he has - that this is out of their hands already, that they’re both trying to fight something that is much stronger than will alone. But he places a hand on Fernando’s neck and pulls him closer for a kiss - just a pressing of lips, long and pleading, but chaste at the same time. And for a moment, it’s just this - the two of them, in the home they share, sitting together on their bed. It’s familiar and comfortable again, and Fernando allows himself to savor that brilliant second, because he sure as hell hasn’t had a lot of those lately. Not with Stevie, not with anyone else.

Stevie pulls away and lies back on the bed, shutting his eyes. He’s tired, Fernando can tell. They both had a very long night.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, placing a gentle hand on the other man’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Stevie agrees. “I just need some minutes. An hour, tops. Then I’ll be as good as new.”

“Sure. I’ll let you get some rest.”

Before Fernando can get up, though, Stevie’s eyelids flow open. “Can you…” he starts. “I think you should get some rest. Too,” he speaks with an unfamiliar kind of nervousness. “Could you… I mean, if you want to… You can… Stay. Here. Have some sleep. If you want to.”

Stevie waits expectantly while Fernando ponders over the suggestion. He smiles and nods. “Ok,” Fernando says, lying down next to him as they settle more comfortably on the bed. Stevie turns on his side, nuzzling his head against the pillow. Fernando hadn’t realized how worn out he felt himself until right about now.

They used to do this all the time before - the afternoon naps. Lying together in companionable silence, with eyes closed and just enough contact to know that the other was there - sometimes an arm thrown over the other possessively, sometimes a tiny hug, sometimes a head resting on a chest, sometimes more. Not really doing anything, just… Relaxing. Falling asleep to the sound of completeness - completeness is oddly quiet, Fernando learned. Oddly because they’re a music group, and you’d think life would be very loud all the time for rock stars. But it isn’t. Happiness is quiet and peaceful and completely windless. It’s when you’re able to say nothing and do nothing and think of nothing and still feel absolutely at ease in someone else's company. It’s how their lazy afternoons in used to be like. Such a distant thought now.

Fernando watches the Englishman as he falls asleep.

For now, he doesn’t have to think about anything else - about last night, last week, about Madrid, or Finns, or Xabi, or anything. Definitely not about the future. And it’s a relief. He closes his eyes and lets Stevie’s harsh breath lull him to sleep as well. That’s all there is for now.

 

x-x-x

Only after ringing the bell persistently for several minutes, his index finger practically glued to the little button next to the door, he hears the sound of footsteps dashing down the stairs.

Daniel checked the garage - Stevie’s car is there, which means it could be him grumbling his way to the door now, and then he wouldn’t know what to do. He should’ve thought this through - at least come up with an excuse. Truth be told, he shouldn’t be here at all, in fact. It doesn’t make any sense and not even he knows what spirit possessed him that he just had to drive all the way to the Gerrards’s - Fernando would hate to hear him refer to their house like that - to talk to the Spaniard. It’s the same kind of urgency that you get when you leave the house and then can’t remember whether you left something on or forgot to lock the door and the thought just won’t leave you alone until you go back and check. Daniel wouldn’t stop kicking about unless he came to see Fernando.

He has nothing in particular to tell him. Except maybe thank you. He feels bad for having been a jerk to the Spaniard, for getting him into a pity fuck and then sending him out on route to Liverpool’s direst corners after a person he never even met. Fernando has nothing to do with his mess, and Daniel feels he might’ve taken it too far, abused his guilt just a little bit too much. So he suddenly needs to thank Fernando and apologize and make sure that he knows how much everything he did means to him.

That’s a brand new kind of feeling for Daniel Agger. He’s not sure how to deal with it, except by showing up totally uninvited at other people’s homes, apparently.

Footsteps get closer and he hears a protesting groan - was it Spanish or Scouser? Fernando’s car is parked outside the house as well. It’s a 50/50 shot.

There’s a split second of apprehension when the door opens, and then he breathes out relieved when he sees Fernando’s freckled face staring at him in confusion.

They stay like this for a moment, measuring out each other - Fernando from inside the house, Daniel from the outside, neither really sure of what to say.

“Daniel,” the Spaniard begins, clearly surprised and not entirely in a good way, although he tries his best not to let it shine through. “What are you doing here?”

“Is Stevie home?” he asks, just to make sure.

Fernando nods, nervously. “Yeah, he’s upstairs. I think he’s asleep.” He looks back over his own shoulder, then turns back to him. “Is everything ok?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I just need to talk to you,” he explains, taking a step back and motioning with his hand for Fernando to join him outside. “It will only take a minute, don’t worry.”

It takes Fernando maybe a second longer than it should to react as he probably ponders over the risks before nodding again and stepping out of the house. 

It’s only when they’re face to face under the sunlight that Daniel notices how disheveled Fernando's hair is and how he looks sleepy himself. So they were probably sleeping together. Which means that he didn’t get into so much trouble with Stevie after all, if they were sharing a bed already.

Daniel knows he’s supposed to feel glad about it, but, not so surprisingly, he isn’t.

Fernando is waiting.

“Look,” Daniel begins, stuffing his hand in his own pockets. “I just wanted to thank you for last night. I was in a really bad place. It was nice of you to show up, and to stick around, even though I was a total ass.”

Fernando’s face contorts like he’s in pain. “Dan -”

“No, let me say it. I don’t think you know how much it meant to me, Fernando. You saw what I had. That… Thing. In my kitchen. You found it. It was Finns’. But he left behind and I… I was considering.” Fernando’s eye widens in shock for just a second, until he becomes aware of his own expression and tries to disguise it. “I know. It’s terrible. But maybe if you hadn’t showed up, I would have.” Daniel never told Fernando how he spent hours staring at those perfect lines of cocaine, convincing himself that he shouldn’t, but wanting nothing more than to snort it all at once. He has no idea whether he would've been able to stop at that. He thinks not. “Mostly, though, I want to thank you for going out with me and helping me track down Finns.” That look of utter pain again. “I know we didn’t find him, but that’s ok,” Dan hurries to add, trying to appease whatever it is that is bothering Fernando. He’s probably feeling bad that he suggested it and it didn’t work out after all. Except it did, in a weird way.

“Don’t thank me, Daniel.”

“But I have to. It helped. I feel better. At least I did something, at least I tried. You were right about that.”

“No, I wasn’t. I wasn’t right about anything.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Oh, God…” Fernando buries his face in his own hands, shaking his head helplessly.

Daniel frowns and stretches out a hand to lay on his shoulder in a comforting touch. “It’s ok, Fernando,” he repeats. “Really. I’m better. And it’s because of you, actually. So I wanted to come here and say this properly. Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me!” Fernando nearly shouts, startling Daniel. He pulls his hand back and steps away.

The Dane blinks, confused, at the other man, who looks apologetically at him, face crumpling up as though he’s about to start crying.

“Fernando…” he begins, but the Spaniard raises his palms in the air and he shuts his mouth again.

“Stop,” Fernando says. “Stop. You don’t want to thank me, because I did something horrible. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I can’t lie to you. Not about this.”

“… What are you…?”

“I found him, ok?! I found Finns and I let him go. He wanted me to lie to you about it, and I can’t. There. I said it.”

Daniel’s not sure what happens just then, but the feeling is something like: the world stops turning for a second, leaving a huge, blank space for his brain to fill. However, before he can actually make sense of what Fernando just said, it starts spinning too fast to catch up, and his head is positively about to explode.

“…What?” is all he manages to come up with.

Fernando hides his face again, takes a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Dan. I didn’t want to lie to you, but… He wanted to go, I couldn’t keep him there. He said a bunch of things and it all made sense!”

“You… Found Finns? You were with him last night?”

Fernando nods. “I’m so sorry, Dan… I didn’t want to do that. I just wanted to talk to him, say something, I don’t know… I wanted to help, really. But I just couldn’t - When he left, I - I went after him, a little later. Maybe five minutes. Or ten, I don’t know. But I couldn’t find him.” He’s talking really fast and Daniel’s finding it hard to make anything out of it, probably because he stopped listening a while ago.

He came to Fernando’s house to personally thank him and apologize for acting like an idiot and all this time…

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Fernando asks, guiltily, when Daniel stays quiet.

Truth is, he doesn’t know what to say. He thinks this awkward feeling he’s getting is hurt, betrayal, like someone - not just someone, _Fernando_ \- put a dagger right through his heart. Daniel Agger doesn’t trust many people in his life. In fact, he’d go as far to say he doesn’t really trust anyone with the important things. He certainly can’t ever imagine sitting down to have a chat about Finns with anyone in his life - not Nicklas, not his sister, not even Carra, who is pretty much aware of all the facts.

For some reason, he thought Fernando was different. But life has this way of always proving him wrong in the most sadistic manner.

“I thought you were on my side,” is all he says.

“But I am! I am!” Fernando replies, exasperated again. “I tried to find him again when he left, but that man is - I don’t know, but he is fast.”

“You weren’t supposed to have let him walk in the first place.”

“I know. _I know, I know, I know,_ and I’m so sorry, Dan. You have no idea. That’s _killing_ me. But he was so sure of himself… The things he said - it all made so much sense! And he was talking about you, too! And how I was responsible for everything, and I didn’t know what to do!”

“He’s a fucking junkie, Fernando!” Now he’s definitely yelling. “That’s what junkies do, they lie! I told you to watch out and not believe his bullshit!”

“I know!” Fernando cries. “I don’t know what got into me!”

“If you didn’t want to get involved, you didn’t have to. I never asked you to, you _offered_. But since you were out there to help me, you had _no right_ to let him walk away! I was up until six in the morning running up and down this city after Finns while you had found him, lost him and headed back to fuck your boyfriend again!”

Fernando purses his lips, eyes wide with disappointment and hurt, but Daniel is not even fazed. Fernando fucked up. He fucked up so hard.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is not fucking good enough.”

Because he’s got nothing else to say, Daniel just turns around and heads back to his car. “Daniel!” Fernando calls out behind him. “Dan, wait! Please!” He doesn’t care, because Finns could be dead right now, being buried as an indigent somewhere right this minute, and he can’t even look at that Spanish face.

That’s what you get for trusting people.

x-x-x

“Daniel!” Fernando cries as the Dane walks away, rooted to his spot by the door, unable to walk after him and ask him to wait for just a second and let him explain himself. But then, he wouldn’t know how to explain himself, would he? “Dan, wait!” he tries again, just because.

Because it is really upsetting - more than upsetting, really - to watch Daniel go like that, even if he’s got no idea what to tell him.

“Please…”

Daniel doesn’t even look back. He gets in his car, slams the door shut and drives away, screeching tires.

Fernando closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

_Fuck._

He knew he shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have stopped to talk to Finns. He should’ve just called Daniel and let him sort things out his way. He had nothing to do with it, absolutely no business talking to the guy, scaring him away. This whole thing was way out of his league, and Fernando knew, from the beginning, that he wouldn’t be able to lie. Not about something as important as this.

Now Daniel’s never going to forgive him and what good did that bring to anyone? Finns is going to shoot up ‘till he drops dead with a needle stuck in his arm, Daniel is going to be eternally brokenhearted and never speak to him again, and he…

Well, hell. Fernando doesn’t even know where he stands right now, but it feels like he just touched the bottom of something.

But it can always get worse, can’t it?

When he goes inside again, he finds Stevie standing by the staircase, leaning on the wooden banister.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, and nearly punches his own face, but refrains from doing it.

It’s hard to say what is most unnerving: the judgment on Stevie’s eyes or the fact he’s simply not saying anything.

Groaning in frustration, Fernando stomps past him and into the living room. When he reaches the other side, he stops by a window. Usually, a bright, sunny day like this one would have him immediately out of the house. He and Stevie would have lunch somewhere nice, take a walk outside, go to the park, maybe kick a ball around. He can see the irony here.

Fernando looks up at the sky and mentally curses whichever greater being is up there, because it sure as hell is a bloody sadistic one.

When he turns again, Stevie is there, still watching, still not saying anything, and Fernando just wants to hit him for no reason other than the fact he can’t take any more bullshit right now.

“What?!” he demands, his arms falling heavily beside his body. “Just say it, Stevie! I know you’re going to start yelling, so have your turn!”

Stevie blinks, calmly. “I’m not.”

Fernando lets out an ironic and also kind of desperate laugh. “Right. Because you’re so very comprehensive, aren’t you? You’ve been wanting to lecture me with your bullshit since last night. Don’t hold yourself back on the account of me being drunk, I’m not anymore. Go ahead.”

Nothing.

“Will you just fucking say something?! Or stop staring and go away!”

Stevie sighs and takes a short step closer to him. “I wasn’t going to yell at you, Fernando,” his boyfriend starts. “I was going to say I think you did the right thing, but I’m not sure you want to hear that either.”

Well, that’s… Something. Certainly. Definitely unexpected.

“What… What do you mean, the right thing?” Fernando asks, aghast.

Stevie shrugs. “From what I understood, you had a chat with Finns last night, right? And he talked you into letting him walk. Is that it, or did I miss the point of your exchange with Daniel?” Slowly, and slightly confused, Fernando nods. “Finns is like that. He’s always been. You weren’t here the first time, you don’t know what he can be like. Or Daniel, for that matter, when it comes to him. I think he’s an idiot about most things, if you ask me, but with Finns it was in a whole different category. He’s blind, or stupid, I don’t know. He just won’t take no for answer, and Finns is…” Stevie’s eyes move away for a second, to the window behind him, then back - full of an entirely new brand of melancholy. “He’s a very persuasive lad. Even when he’s totally out of his mind. How do you think he got Daniel like that in the first place? He’s very good with his words.”

Fernando’s lips are slightly parted and his eyes a trifle too wide and he’s maybe a little bit in shock here. From all the things he thought he’d get from Stevie right now - he couldn’t even really say he thought this would be the last on his list, because, honestly, it wasn’t even on the list.

He wants to say ‘Yes!’ and ‘Thank you!’ and ‘Exactly!’, but he doesn’t.

It’s his turn to be mute.

Stevie takes the cue and goes on. “You shouldn’t whip yourself up too hard. Daniel won’t understand, not now, anyway, but it’s just how he is. ‘Till this day he thinks, in that twisted head of his, that I’m somehow responsible for the fact Finns left, he never even stopped to consider that Finns was my friend long before he even showed up in our lives - and he’s been acting like a prick ever since. He just believes whatever he wants because he thinks the entire world is in debt to him for all the suffering he’s gone through, so things have to always go his way. But it’s not your fault. You did the right thing. Finns is not good for him. Maybe it won’t be today, but someday he’ll accept that.”

“If something happens to him -”

“It still won’t be your fault. Jesus, Fernando, did Daniel even tell you _anything_ about Finns? Rest assured that absolutely nothing that happens to him has anything to do with you. _Nothing_.”

“I couldn’t do it, Stevie. I couldn’t keep Finns there, he didn’t want to stay! Do you see that? Do you understand how I couldn’t? He was talking about life and future and happiness and I don’t even know what I want for myself, how can I take responsibility for anyone else?! For _Daniel_?! I couldn’t make that call for him, I didn’t have that right!”

It’s only when Stevie frowns awkwardly at him and says, “Are you crying?” that he notices that he actually is.

Fernando wipes the tears off furiously with the palm of his hands, feeling his face warm, and says, “No,” but his voice is shaky and uncertain. “I’m not.”

Stevie walks to him, stops an inch away and gently holds his wrists to keep him from rubbing his eyes. “God,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you crying before.”

Fernando swallows down hard. “I don’t think I’ve ever fucked up this bad before.”

“You haven’t fucked anything up, Fernando,” Stevie adds, calmly. “Not this, anyway. But you really do care about that son of a bitch, don’t you?”

The answer is so glaring obvious Fernando doesn’t see the need to hurt Stevie’s feelings by actually replying. The Spaniard bows down his head, fixes his gaze on the carpet, and tries not to start crying again.

Stevie lets go of his wrists and for a heartbeat Fernando thinks the other man’s finally done with this, he’s just going to turn around and these will have been the last seconds of their relationship. It’s a pity, really, because regardless of how much they’ve changed, it deserved a better wrap-up - they deserved it.

Instead of leaving, though, Stevie slips his arms around Fernando’s waist and pulls him into a tight, warm hug - one arm firmly wrapped around him while his other hand rests on his head, fingers slipping through blond hair in a gentle caress.

If Fernando says he’s not surprised, he’ll be lying, but the astonishment lasts only a blink. Fernando welcomes the embrace, buries his face on Stevie’s neck and presses his eyes shut with all his strength in order to keep the tears in and not wet the Englishman’s skin. He balls his hands in fists that grab on to Stevie’s shirt as though he were trying to escape.

“It’s ok, Nando,” Stevie whispers, his lips nearly touching Fernando’s ear.

Nothing’s ok, he knows that. Daniel’s not ok, he’s not ok, Finns is definitely not ok. Not even Stevie is ok. But the mere fact Stevie’s stepping over all his pride and jealousy, swallowing down resentment and suspicion in order to give him a moment of comfort - well, for a whole, full second there, Fernando can almost believe that it will be fine after all. Everything will be just fine, as long as he never has to move, ever again.

After what seems like hours, Fernando takes a deep breath, let go of Stevie’s shirt and allows his hands to slide down the other man’s back, softly, in a ‘thank you’ sort of caress. “He’s going to hate me forever,” he says, because that is positively the only thing he’s sure of right now.

Daniel will hate him for all eternity and he’s got every right to.

“He’ll come around,” Stevie replies.

“He still hates you and you didn’t send Finns away. I did.”

“I never tried to be on Daniel’s good side. I don’t like him either, so we’re even on that matter.” He pauses. “You’re different.”

Fernando pushes gently away from him. Stevie still seems exhausted and the lines on his face are stern and tight, but there’s something softer about his eyes; softer and sadder as well.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Fernando asks.

Stevie blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We had a horrible fight for much less than this just yesterday. You were barely speaking to me.”

“Have you been spending so much time with Daniel that you now agree with him about me?”

“No!” he denies decisively. “Of course not. It’s just… I was expecting… I thought you’d be…”

“Jealous?” Unsurely, Fernando nods. “I am. But what good will it make us if I start getting angry? You’re upset, and I don’t know what you think of me right now, but I still care about you, Fernando. I hate seeing you like this more than I hate the whole rest of it.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence between them, before Stevie steps away. Fernando cringes inwardly, not yet ready to let go of this safe zone they created in those brief minutes, but doesn’t protest.

“Can I get you something?” Stevie asks. “I can make you tea.”

Fernando frowns. “You’ll make me tea?”

“Sure. If you want to.”

He could start crying again right now. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll be right back then.”

Fernando drops down on the couch like a bomb as Stevie disappears from his sight. Having a supportive boyfriend is supposed to be a good thing, right? His, right now, is being mindful and kind and just anything he could ask him to be, really, but Fernando can’t shake off that little sense of coldness he’s getting from Stevie. Like there’s something awfully wrong with him, he just won’t say it, won’t let it show. It’s a tiny, tiny thing, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Something feels disconnected. And if Fernando’s honest with himself, he knows exactly what it is.

Seeing Fernando like this, so undone about someone else, is heartbreaking to Stevie. Even if they haven’t been ok, even if they’ve been lying and cheating and distant. It’s the kind of thing you can’t help, Fernando thinks. Like seeing an ex-boyfriend with someone new for the first time; doesn’t matter how long it’s been, it always stings.

What about seeing your current boyfriend getting all emotional about someone else?

Fernando can’t decide what’s worse: infuriated Stevie giving him stick or comprehensive Stevie actually being nice. Both would/are killing him. But the first would probably be easier to handle.

Stevie returns with a cuppa - delicious, as always, because he’s a master of tea -, sits with him for a few minutes, but doesn’t say anything. Fernando thinks of times when silence wasn’t so dreadful, when they could sit for hours next to each other, not saying a word, and it would still be fine. 

A while later, Stevie excuses himself, goes back to the bedroom, says he’s tired and really needs to rest. Fernando says, “Of course,” and “Thank you,” for the cuppa, and everything else. Stevie smiles - strained and barely there, but it’s a smile -, kisses him on the forehead and trudges up the stairs.

Fernando doesn’t see him again until the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The great gala is next! :O


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I apologize beforehand for all the mistakes you will obviously find in this chapter. Blah blah blah, you know why. I'm really sorry.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. If you do, let me know! :) Thanks in advance to everyone who's been reading this story. You guys are awesome.

It’s only when you reach certain very low moments in life that you begin to truly appreciate the glory of small wins. 

Avoiding Fernando inside their own house for an entire day had been torture. But Stevie reckons that being made to ride a limo with Fernando _and_ Daniel would’ve made his inferno day feel like a trip to Disney Land in comparison. He needs to remember to thank Carra later for not making them parade down the red carpet all together; he’s not too sure they would’ve pulled that one off.

With just Fernando he can deal, though. He isn’t in the mood for talking, mostly because there is too much to be said and he doesn’t know, can’t even begin to know, where to start. Stevie fears they’ve reached a point where it just doesn’t make any sense to sit down and have a proper conversation, and even if they do, he’s afraid there will be no speaking at all, only staring and judging and shrugging, and he wants that even less, if possible.

Fernando is not pushing for _The Talk_ himself. They slept in separate rooms and Stevie only saw his boyfriend when they started getting ready for the gala, and only because Fernando's suit was in their bedroom and he kind of needed all his hair products and his perfume and so they had to share the space while they got dressed, but they barely looked at each other, which is saying a lot. Having Fernando Torres half-naked next to you and not being interested in staring is… Well, not something that happens every day. In Stevie’s case, not something that has ever happened before. 

The car ride is just as quiet, but not too bad, all things considered. All the events of the week moved Stevie’s focus completely away from this ceremony, but as soon as he gets into the limo he remembers he's presenting an award and immediately starts freaking out again. You’d think a person who makes a living out of being on a stage wouldn’t get nervous in a situation like this. But it is completely different, singing in front of people who love what you do and pay money just to see you and standing before a quiet audience of rivals, ready to slay you at the slightest opportunity. He tried to pass on the opportunity, but Carra insisted and said it was good for business that they even wanted him up there.

He’d been pretty pissed at Carra then - ‘ _Why can’t Pepe do it? He’s a fucking show-off, he loves having the microphone, send him!_ ’. Now, though, as the bubble of anticipation rises in his chest, making him nervous and apprehensive and not positively thinking about the messes (plural) of his life, it feels like a blessing in disguise. It’s good to have a distraction.

On the red carpet - which turns out to be blue, actually, and not so glamorous after all - they are brilliant. They pose together for photos, sign some autographs, flirt a little with the fans; routine stuff. When he feels they're taking too long outside, Fernando places a very discreet hand on the small of his back and gives him a little push, indicating it's time to go. Stevie’s pretty sure some girls squeal behind him, and he would’ve maybe squealed himself, was he not in such a pre-award presentation self-conscious state. The fact he can't get himself to talk to Fernando absolutely does not mean he doesn’t _want_ to talk to Fernando; he's just waiting for his boyfriend to be the grown up, as he usually is, and start off the conversation. 

He just wishes Daniel and his stupid tattoos could hear those squealing fans. _Gernando_ has shippers too, arsehole.

Once inside, things progress pretty fast and rather smoothly. They're made to sit together, and there are maybe five very intense minutes there between the moment they meet and when the lights are dimmed and the ceremony begins so Stevie can go back to concentrating on the butterflies in his stomach rather than on how much he wants to beat the crap out of Daniel. He makes sure that Daniel and Fernando are not sitting next to each other. There's Daniel, then Pepe and Yolanda, Carra and Nicola, then Stevie, then Fernando. He can see how this is very uncomfortable, as he doesn’t give the Spaniard a lot of options - he can either talk to him or not talk at all - but, well. Desperate measures for desperate situations.

And anyway, he has to go up on stage, so it doesn't even last too long.

The Red Kop hasn’t been nominated for anything, but he gives away the Best Album of the Year award to Alex Curran and her long legs. It's the first thing about that woman anyone notices; as far as he can tell, she's a pair of legs with a very big blond wig. Not that the rest of her body isn’t nice to look at. She's a very attractive lady. But the legs are something special.

She maybe feels the same way about him, because she gets all over Stevie on the backstage afterwards. If he wasn't very sure he prefers men - or if he was just a tiny bit angrier at Fernando, perhaps - he really could score here. Stevie appreciates a good pair of legs, regardless of the gender of the owner, and, yeah, he had his moments with girls in the past, they weren’t so bad, but he still fancies Fernando’s thick and muscular thighs a lot more than Alex’s thin, well-shaped ones. He never meant to do anything about it, but he indulges the lady for a little while. He congratulates her for the award (albeit still inwardly questioning the merit of it; he only knows her work superficially, but the little he’s heard of her music, he can sum up as an auto-tuned ode to her own beauty) and pays the mandatory compliment to her outfit. That part he actually means, as she really does look stunning. 

When he finally goes to join the lads again, the ceremony's over and they have all moved to this huge saloon at the hotel where a post-award party is being held. Basically a space where famous, not-so-famous and wannabe-famous people gather together to pretend they know and/or like each other, pose for a couple of photographs and - more importantly - drink.

When Stevie finally manages to find his band in amidst the already tipsy subcelebrities looking for any opportunity to be seen hanging out with more recognizable figures, they have already started the works, each with their own champagne flute in hand.

“Ahh, if it isn’t Mr. Best Album of the Year,” Pepe greets him, beaming. “We thought you’d never grace us with your award-worthy company again.”

“I didn’t keep the award, Pepe,” he says, stopping next to Fernando by force of habit. “Although I think if I’d asked…” He gives a little smile and looks at his boyfriend, checking if he’d managed to take any kind of positive reaction at all from the other man. Maybe he’d take the bite and look interested or even just smile back at him or simply lighten up a bit. Anything would do. But Fernando doesn’t even bat an eyelid. It’s like he doesn’t even take notice that Stevie’s there.

Pepe, on the other hand, lets out a really loud laugh and pats him on the shoulder. “You two would make beautiful blond Scouser kids. You should consider her to be the mother of your children, Stevie, if you ever want one.”

“Stevie and Alex Curran?!” Carra interjects. “Fuck me, Jesus! We’d never hear the end of that. God knew what he was doing when he bent that one.”

“Hey,” Stevie frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but I think it’s offensive.”

“Yeah,” Carra nods and turns to Pepe. “Hey, Reina, come with me. I think I just saw Benítez.”

“Don’t you want me -” Stevie begins, but Carra shuts him up with a cold glare.

“Don’t even think about getting close to Benítez today, Gerrard.”

His manager grabs Pepe by the arm and the pair quickly disappears from sight. He curses Jamie inwardly for leaving him alone with Fernando, but he can sort of see his point here. Things are on the brink of an explosion. Considering what happened the last time they were supposed to meet with Benítez, he can’t exactly blame Carra for not wanting them near the man right now. This is definitely not the place where you’d want to have an outburst, although judging by the impressive amount of time he and Fernando managed to go without saying anything to each other at all so far, it doesn’t really look like they’re on route to a fight. Right now Stevie would say they’re on route to die of boredom and awkwardness and Fernando would hardly bother to even share a last word with him.

Taking a deep breath, he finally turns to Fernando, who was clearly staring at him right until the moment their eyes met, at which point he tries his best to hide his face behind his flute and looks away. 

Stevie takes that as a good sign. Sort of. “So. How did it go?”

“What?”

“The award.”

“You were there.”

“I know, I just meant…” This is really not happening, is it? “Never mind.”

Daniel’s nowhere to be seen, he notices. Notices and attributes Fernando’s grumpiness to it, which invariably sends him into a bad mood as well. It’s a cycle, and a never-ending one at that.

Every now and then someone comes over, says hi, asks for a photograph or two, acts like they know them, have them interact with each other and moves on. They’re good at pretending to be fine in front of strangers, so even though most of the people approaching them are just plain annoying, he actually appreciates it. They’re getting Fernando to smile, which is more than he’s managed to do in a while. Every time they’re left alone again, Stevie feels as though he’s on the verge of doing something, saying something, except he doesn’t know what to do or say, so he does neither.

They stay like this for maybe half an hour before Fernando really directs him the word again.

And what he says is, “Oh, look who’s here.”

Stevie doesn’t even need to look to know who Fernando’s talking about; all it takes is hearing the evident irony bleeding onto his boyfriend’s voice. 

Stevie had this feeble, innocent hope that maybe he wouldn’t show up, that they wouldn’t accidentally bump into each other and that it wouldn’t be weird. Maybe, just maybe, Fernando and his lack of interaction would be his greatest concern tonight and he wouldn’t have to think about the other messy situation in his life. But when you’re in a wave of bad luck, the entire universe seems to conspire against you. 

Of course Xabi’s seen them, of course he is walking towards them, of course he’s got a bloody smile all over his ginger-bearded face.

_Of course_.

Stevie’s legs almost buckle when he sees him. It’s like the world starts moving in slow motion. It feels as though he’s watching a mesmerizing scene from a movie, because it’s simply too far outside his scope. Each step Xabi takes sends a brand new stream of panic washing right over him. He wants to leave, of course. Excuse himself, turn around and run as fast as he can, as far as he can. He doesn’t want to experience the next hideous minutes of whatever it is that’s about to happen here, but he figures it doesn’t matter where he goes, agony is just going to follow him. Besides, the only thing possibly less dignifying than standing between Xabi and Fernando would be to actually run right now.

“Is that Cristiano Ronaldo with him?”

Stevie hadn’t noticed the orange mass moving behind the Spaniard. So Xabi has a date. That same lad from the picture he saw in his living room, except he looks much more orange in person and his hair looks extra shiny, like he got it from a can.

Now Stevie’s not only panicking, but he’s also angry. Xabi is a fucking arsehole. Follows him down to Liverpool, ruins his life - _again_ , it’s important to highlight - and then brings a date to the gala. And now he and his date are approaching them and he’s going to be introduced to Xabi’s lover and _fucking Christ_ , Fernando is right there!

His brain is positively melting inside his skull.

“Steven,” Xabi says, affable as a politician, like this is a casual meeting between good friends who haven’t seen each other in ages. Like he hadn’t been riding Stevie's cock just a day before. He’s wearing a tuxedo so perfect that it’s like he was born with it, like it’s part of his body, but Stevie can see him naked underneath it and can hear him panting and crying ‘ _Yes_ ’ and ‘ _More_!’ and ‘ _Harder_!’ and this is so inappropriate in so many levels he can’t even begin to make sense out of it. He takes a fleeting look at Fernando, because he’s pretty sure his thoughts are so loud his boyfriend is going to hear Xabi moaning in his head. “Hello.”

This has to be on the top 3 most awkward moments of his life.

Ideally, he has two options: he can either act surprised and pretend he didn’t know Xabi would be here, or he can act naturally and be cold and very mature about this situation.

But the truth is he’s too embarrassed to act rationally, so instead of dealing with this in a dignified manner, Stevie glares and doesn’t say anything.

“You must be Fernando,” Xabi says, turning to his boyfriend instead, offering a hand for a shake. The cheek of that bastard… 

When Fernando takes his hand, Stevie is positively sure he’s going to pass out. He wants to slap Xabi’s hand away and forbid him from touching any part of Fernando. But he’s not that far gone that he can muster the courage to do that, so he seethes very quietly as Fernando, who should know better, accepts the hand shake with a sickening enthusiasm. 

“Xabi Alonso,” his boyfriend says, as though he was waiting for this moment. “So we finally meet. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Did you?” Xabi chuckles. _Chuckles_! He’s enjoying this! “I’ve heard a lot about you as well. Only good things, by the way. Which I’m sure is probably not my case.” 

Jesus Christ. What happens next? They sit down for a cuppa and share stories about Stevie's bed manners? ‘ _Oh, have you seen that birth mark he has on his left butt cheek? Doesn’t it look like a little heart?_ ’ The mere thought is nauseating. 

Now it’s Fernando’s turn to look at him, and it sends a wave of impossible heat through his body. “Well,” Fernando says. “I’d say I probably haven’t heard enough, if you ask me.”

Stevie wonders whether he’s just being melodramatic here or if it’s really Fernando who’s not responding to the gravity of the situation accordingly. He’s indulging Xabi. They’re _bonding_. Even if Fernando had no idea about what has been recently going on between the two of them - which Stevie is pretty sure is not the case - the fact it’s his ex-boyfriend there should be enough to make the current one spiky and hostile. Right? 

For a moment there, Stevie feels like he’s just taking this too seriously. Maybe this happens all the time. Maybe people do this every day out in the world, hence why everyone’s so breezy while he’s freaking out.

“Oh, pardon me,” Xabi says, placing a hand behind Cristiano’s back and pulling him closer to the group. “This is Cristiano. I’m his producer.”

“That’s an understatement,” the Portuguese says in a very thick accent. “Xabi is my guru.”

Guru. Fucking guru. That’s how they call it. Bloody fucking guru.

The two men exchange a quick knowing look before Cristiano offers him a hand to shake. He’s beaming, a smile so white it’s blinding Stevie’s very British eyes. People in the UK do not have teeth that good and Stevie finds himself suddenly resenting his mother for not making him wear braces when he was younger. 

“Steven,” Stevie says as he finally, after an awkwardly stretched moment, takes the other man’s hand. 

Stevie finds himself doing something he’s always deemed extremely lame: analyzing a hand shake. A hand shake is a hand shake, is what he’s always thought. All those ‘What does your hand shake say about you?’ articles were pure rubbish and just another way of making people feel and act more alike, some new stupid paranoia to put inside their heads, like there isn’t enough out there to consume everyone’s brains already. But here he is, reeling his mind back to come up with everything he’s learned about handshakes and their meanings. 

Cristiano has a strong, firm, exuding-confidence kind of grip. The grip of someone who’s absolutely comfortable inside his very orange skin, someone who doesn’t have an inch of insecurity in his body. Stevie decides he definitely doesn’t like this guy.

“Nice to finally meet you, Steven.”

Stevie frowns. “What do you mean, finally?”

“Only that I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“What have you heard about me?” he asks, more aggressively.

Cristiano looks puzzled for a second, but his grin doesn’t falter. 

“Stevie is a little shy,” Xabi interrupts. “He’s very mindful of his reputation. Don’t worry, Steven. He only heard the good things.”

“ _The_ good things? You mean there are bad things about me you’ve been telling random people out there?”

“I’m Fernando,” his boyfriend steps in, stealing Cristiano’s hand for a handshake and taking the attention away from the embryonic argument between him and Xabi. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m a huge fan.”

This moment, right here, has got to be disrupting the fabric of the universe a little bit. Stevie can feel it; it’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. A tiny little earthquake, or the smallest fraction of a second wherein everything seems to be suspended in the air. It’s like that theory about the butterflies batting their wings in China or wherever and a hurricane starting elsewhere. He’s pretty sure there are pretty things dying in some distant part of the world as his boyfriend shakes hands with his lover and his lover’s boyfriend and they all smile and act like they have no idea of how infuriatingly, impossibly weird this is. 

Stevie wishes a hole would open right under his feet, right now, and suck him out of this room. He doesn’t even care where he would be sent. It could be straight to the sun, for all he cares. He just wants to be anywhere else but here.

Maybe the problem really is him, rather than this set of odd circumstances. It’s the only explanation. Maybe his discomfort is indicative of a strong and disastrous Liverpool-bred squareness. Maybe he’s just not ‘European’ enough to understand the mores of Spanish thinking. Maybe this is a very typically Spanish thing. 

“Really?” The Portuguese laughs a little. “Thank you! I really like your band too. I have both Red Kop albums back home.”

“ _The_ Red Kop.”

Cristiano blinks at Stevie. “Sorry?”

“It’s The Red Kop, not just Red Kop. Get the name right.”

“Well, it was great seeing you,” Xabi cuts in, already pushing Cristiano away from them. “I think we should be going, there are a lot of people we need to talk to. Nice to meet you, Fernando.” Xabi smiles at his boyfriend, turns to him and pauses for a second. “Steven.” With a curt nod, he turns around and leaves.

Stevie spent the entire night waiting for Fernando to face him and look him in the eye and actually speak more than two very straightforward words per sentence, but when he finally does, with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows arched up in a very pointed look, Stevie wishes he would stick to the silent treatment instead. Sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for.

“Since when are you a big fan of that guy?” he asks, before Fernando has the chance to say anything. 

“I’m not, I just thought someone ought to say something nice to divert from your pout.”

“Why would we have to say something nice to someone we don’t even know?” he asks. “And I wasn’t pouting,” he adds then, realizing that he should’ve probably denied the pout first before indirectly attacking Cristiano some more.

“I was about to ask what crawled up your ass, but that’s a really stupid question, isn’t it?”

“There’s nothing up my arse. I’m just… uncomfortable.”

“You don’t say!” Fernando exclaims in mock-surprise. “It must be really difficult for you to see your - _Xabi_ , with a date.”

“It’s not….!” Stevie stops what would be a rant and shuts his mouth when he figures out what Fernando’s trying to do: wind him up to get him to confess. Something he should do, probably (definitely) should’ve already done. This is getting ridiculous to the point of comic, and there’s really nowhere else to run anymore, no life-saving buoy to grab onto and wait for the storm to pass on its own. It’s about time he accepts that this is just not going to go away. They’re gonna have to address this properly.

It’s just not going to happen here, or now.

“You know what? I need a fucking drink.”

He turns around and stomps towards the bar, not giving Fernando a chance to protest or make some bitter remark about things crawling up his arse that really mean he’s very much aware that _his_ thing has been crawling up other people’s arses.

If Stevie’s going to get through this party without any major incidents, he sure as hell needs to be drunk.

x-x-x

“I don’t reckon your manners were always this dire.”

Stevie looks up from his third - third? - drink to find Xabi leaning against the bar counter. He immediately feels something building up inside him - like a fire or a fury, fueled by the biggest sense of disappointment, because what Xabi did was a betrayal. Introducing himself to Fernando, bringing that Cristiano Ricardo lad with him… It was outrageous and unnecessary and a fucking stab on his back. He should at the very least have the decency to stay away from him and act bothered rather than amused. 

Stevie feels as though he’s been swallowing up a scream with his alcohol, while Xabi is smiling like someone just told a very good joke, as nonplussed as ever. That says a lot.

“What do you want?” he asks, gulping from his glass.

“How are you, Steven?”

“Fucking pissed and about to turn that glass on your head if you don’t leave me alone.”

“Wow,” Xabi frowns and shifts his body towards him. “What bit you, Gerrard?”

“You are a bloody mental case, aren’t you? What do you think _bit_ me, _Alonso_?”

Xabi considers him for a moment. “Ok, I admit I crossed the line a little bit.”

“ _A little bit_?! A little bit would be if you had waved from the other side of the room. You didn't just cross a line there, you crossed an entire fucking time zone!”

"Ahm... Ok," Xabi says, frowning awkwardly at his analogy. He's half-drunk, give him a break. “Would you believe me if I said I really didn’t mean any harm? I wasn’t even going to say anything, but… I was curious. I honestly wanted to meet him.”

“What, you want to become friends with him? Maybe share some private jokes about sex with me? Are you fucking out of your mind? You don’t get to meet my boyfriend, Xabi! That’s fucked up!”

“I’m sorry,” Xabi says in that very peculiar way of his of saying things and conveying absolutely no sincerity whatsoever by it, which does very little to ease the tensions.

“No, you’re not.” 

“I’m sorry that I got you this fazed, not that I shook hands with him.”

“That’s the whole problem! You don’t see how wrong you are, you never do!” Stevie is just so exasperated now. His face is set into a permanent state of frowning, the wrinkles on his forehead so deep it’s starting to give him a headache. Although maybe that’s just Xabi. Or his entire life, actually. Everything feels like a huge, bloody headache these days. 

“Look, just… Go away, ok? Don’t come near me again in here, you’re just gonna make things worse.”

“Fair enough,” Xabi says, but doesn’t move away. Instead of leaving, he puts one hand inside his jacket and takes a little piece of paper out, which he carefully places on top of the counter and pushes towards Stevie with the tip of index finger.

“718?” Stevie asks, reading the number written on the paper. “What is that?”

“It’s a room number.”

Holy fuck… 

“Why in God’s name would you do that?”

“It’s a private place for us to talk,” Xabi replies, very calmly.

Stevie opens and closes his mouth in a slightly indignant, slightly overwhelmed kind of way, like he’s going to protest or shout or maybe laugh, but can’t decide what to do first. Xabi must really think he’s as dumb as a doorknob. “You took a room for us to _talk_?”

“Sure,” the Spaniard shrugs. “I agree with you, we shouldn’t be discussing our private matters out here. Clearly some of us can’t keep their cool and behave normally. I wouldn’t want to attract any more attention than necessary.”

The Englishman suppresses a less than dignifying itch of irritation. “I’m not fucking going to your room, Xabi! Have you been smoking pot?” He tried to keep his tone under control, but is very sure he barely managed, thus proving that, regardless of what Xabi’s real intentions are, he actually does have a good point - a realization that only makes Stevie’s blood heat up even more.

Xabi sighs, weary and bored, and pushes himself away from the counter, straightening down his jacket. “Just be there, Steven. Or don’t. It’s your choice. Fifteen minutes.” With a wink, he turns around and walks away, before Stevie can get past the astonishment to protest some more.

He looks down at the paper again - 718 - and wonders in what kind of world this could possibly seem like a good idea. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath, rips the paper apart and throws it on the floor. 

“Hey,” he calls out to the bartender. “Another round, please. And make it double.”

x-x-x

Fernando spent most of the day playing a game with himself. He’d try to think about something, anything really, that has as little to do with his life as possible. It works something like throwing a boomerang: a thought shoots off into the distance, and when it gets as far away as possible - like, say, thinking about the Spanish league, or koala bears, or mentally listing all the pros of having goat milk instead of regular milk - he feels reasonably happy. But then it starts to turn around, hits him square on the head and leaves him exactly where he started from.

In the end, it's only a short-term distraction, but it's the best he can muster, all things considered. He isn't in the mood for talking - or rather, he's very much in the mood for talking, any talking, as long it’s not with Stevie, or about Stevie, or anything else that would remind him of Stevie. For most of the time, though, that's his only option, and his mood gradually deteriorates as time progresses. 

It’s not that he's angry with Stevie. He isn’t. Or it doesn’t start off like that. It's just that at some point between the moment Stevie made him tea the day before and this morning, they got impossibly weird, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with that. Not until he has things figured out, anyway. And, well, the gala is definitely not the place for that. 

But then Stevie had to go and purposefully isolate him from the rest of the band - namely from Daniel - during the ceremony and right about that moment Fernando actually started to get annoyed. He didn’t want to be close to Daniel; he would’ve isolated himself from the Dane if he had been given the chance. But the mere fact it was someone else’s decision, _Stevie’s_ decision, and not his, makes things different, doesn’t it? He's playing the overly-jealous, overprotective boyfriend and not only have they never been that kind of couple, but this is definitely not the right time to start.

Then the whole Xabi Alonso thing happens and, frankly, Fernando is not even sure he understands very well what went on there. It's one of the strangest things he’s ever experienced in his life. Stevie looks like he was about to pass out, Xabi looks like he's having fun, Cristiano Ronaldo… Really, he just looks orange, the poor thing.

But that isn’t even the worst of it. He feels a little bad for Stevie for about ten seconds there. It has to be a million times worse for him than it is for Fernando. He almost, _almost_ , sympathizes. 

Just a day before, Stevie had had all the reasons in the world to be angry with everything and everyone, but he remained calm and comprehensive and for the first time in a very long time it made Fernando feel like they were a unit again. That probably means he has to cut Stevie some slack. They’ve been cutting each other a lot of slack lately, and that is probably what is making their relationship so hard. How much can they forgive based solely on the fact that they are equally sinners? That can’t be right.

But even as determined as he is to not give Stevie an immediate hard time, when he sees him chatting with Xabi by the bar and then following the other man out of the saloon, well… That is really as much as he can take.

Afraid he’ll end up embarrassing himself in front of a lot of important people, Fernando decides to do what anyone would do in his place: he takes the elevator and goes to the roof.

He's only mildly surprised to find out he's not the first person to have that idea.

Daniel is sitting on top of a concrete box, staring out into the distance with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. He takes a moment to notice the Spaniard standing there, shyly waiting for an opportunity to approach or some sort of indication that he’ll be assaulted if he does it so that he can decide whether to stay or to go find himself some other corner to brood. But then the Dane takes a drag and says, “Hey,” and Fernando takes that as a cue that it’s ok to come closer.

With short, uncertain steps, he walks towards his… Daniel. “Hey,” he greets him back, for lack of something else to say.

How do you start a conversation with someone who, allegedly, hates you?

“Tired of the official bullshit too?” Daniel asks, very casual.

“Yeah.” It’s not really that, exactly, but, well. It could be. “Daniel, I…” he starts, but stops. He’s been having too many conversations like this lately; strained and awkward and bereft of actual words. It’s as though he’s constantly walking over a minefield. Fernando would like to think that he managed to skip the mines so far, but that’s not really true. He’s blown up basically every aspect of his life - his official relationship, his non-official relationship, and, on the process, probably his career as well.

“You don’t have to apologize. If that’s what you were going to do,” Dan says, with an overly-flowy move of his wrist.

“Ah… Yes,” Fernando confirms. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and I know that it doesn’t change anything, but still, I’m really -”

“Fernando,” the Dane cuts him off again. “I mean it. You really don’t have to apologize. I was upset last night. I was tired, worried, confused… All that crap. I realize now that I was asking too much of you anyway, and it was wrong to even bring you into my mess. I blamed you for something that wasn’t your fault. So. No need for apologies.”

Fernando is a little shocked at this sudden comprehension - partly because he definitely wasn’t expecting it, partly because he still feels responsible for everything, so he really doesn’t think he deserves it. He is even more at loss for words now than he was a minute ago.

“… I… I don’t… I mean, this is… Shit, I don’t know what to say,” he admits. Daniel chuckles, shakes his head and turns the bottle against his lips. Fernando watches as he drinks, a little streak of champagne running down the corner of his mouth. “I am really sorry, Dan. I’m not proud of what I did and if I could go back -” he blurts out, nervously, because he can’t _not_ apologize, even if Daniel thinks he doesn’t have to.

“If any of us could _go back_ , it wouldn’t be to fix the moment you let a junkie you had just met walk out of a bar. I wouldn’t go back to that moment either. If I had done my part, Finns wouldn’t even have been at the bar anyway. The point is, you can’t go back, and neither can I, and that’s life. We have to move on. I hate it when Finns is right because he’s a fucking cokehead, but he’s been right all along. I’ve been hanging on to this for way too long. It’s about time I start accepting the reality. He’s gone. He’s been gone for a long time.”

Fernando just stares at Daniel. He tries to conjure up something to say, but words are failing him hard. Accepting absolution feels oddly wrong, for reasons he hasn’t quite got a grasp around. It’s like getting praised for that school paper you copied from the internet; you can’t really admit that it’s not yours, but it’s still too cynical to feel proud of it.

Instead, he lowers his eyes to the concrete floor. “Are you ok?” he asks.

“There’s nothing Möet & Chandon can’t make right,” Dan says, and Fernando looks up to see him taking another gulp from the bottle, now nearly empty. “So,” the Dane continues, not giving a chance for the pause to become awkward again. “I hate those assholes and I really can’t stand to act like I give a fuck right now, that’s why I’m up here. The question is, why are _you_ , poster boy? Shouldn’t you be looking pretty downstairs?”

Fernando opens his mouth, closes it again, wonders whether it’s even appropriate to discuss his own personal issues when they, apparently, just got past a major one. He’d feel horrible to start dishing out his rage over Stevie and his - and _Xabi_ , on Daniel, of all people.

“It’s nothing,” the Spaniard replies.

“I know there’s something bugging you.”

“It’s not important.”

“If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t be here,” Dan points out.

“It’s really not a good time, Dan.”

“Why?” He pauses. “Stevie?” Fernando considers him for a moment, and then nods his head, slowly. “What did he do?”

“Dan -”

“Was it me? Did you get in trouble about yesterday?”

“No,” Fernando denies hastily. “He was very cool about it, to be honest. Very understanding.”

Daniel frowns. “Really?”

“I know. Totally unexpected. When I got inside he was waiting for me by the stairs and I thought, ‘Well, fuck. That’s it’. But he just gave me a hug and said you were going to forgive me.”

The Dane’s eyes widen in surprise. “He said that?”

“Yup. And made me some tea afterwards.”

“Are you sure it was really him? Did you test him? Didn’t he get killed and had his body replaced by an alien or something?”

Fernando laughs shortly. “That’s a possibility.”

“Well, if that’s not the problem, then what is it?”

Fernando regards the other man for a long second before stating, “I think Stevie’s fucking Xabi.”

Daniel blinks. “I thought you already knew that.”

“No, I mean - I think he’s fucking Xabi right _now_.”

“You mean - here?” Fernando nods in agreement. “That just blows up all the jerkiness charts, even by Stevie’s very high standards. Why would you think that?”

Fernando sucks the air in, recollecting the scene he witnessed at the party before getting fed up and walking out. He can almost feel his blood boiling up again. “I saw the two of them talking, by the bar. Xabi slipped him a piece of paper and left. Someone approached me to make small talk and when I looked back, literally two minutes later, Stevie wasn’t there anymore. I think they probably got themselves a room and are now fucking each other senseless as we speak.”

The absurdity of his suspicion made him angry at the time - not because it wasn’t something he wasn’t expecting, he was; if the state of their relationship wasn’t proof enough that he should expect the worse, than the pathetic scene with Cristiano Ronaldo left no doubts whatsoever. But to actually think that Stevie would have the nerve to cheat on him at a party he's also attending makes him utterly furious. 

He's not demanding a lot, is he? Just the minimum amount of respect to keep it within acceptable limits.

Fernando reminds himself that this is still an important award ceremony and that there are dozens of important music industry related people there and that Carra will certainly murder them for causing a scene in order to refrain from doing anything drastic about it right at the spot - like, say, searching through the entire hotel until he finds out which room they're in, an idea that did cross his mind. He gave up out of sheer consideration for the others, but it is a fucking bitch of a job to keep the professional mask on at times like this.

“I think that means we have to break up,” Fernando continues, pensively.

“Is that what you want?” Dan asks, and he sounds absolutely cool about it. There’s an odd sense of detachment here, like they’re sitting at a park, having Dr. Peppers instead of champagne and discussing some football team’s latest disappointment on the league. 

Actually, no. If they were discussing football, they’d be a lot more energetic about it.

Does he want to break up with Stevie? That’s the central question here.

Fernando is a believer. He’s always been one. It’s a gift and a curse at once. He hates giving up on things, even when that means going against all reason. He remembers being a kid and telling his friends that he could make his little sister disappear inside the closet. It was a kid thing, and his friends probably wouldn’t have given him too much stick for admitting right away that he was lying. But Fernando refused to admit it and took it to the last minute. He locked his sister in the closet for twenty minutes and of course she was still there when he opened the door, but right up to the last second he felt genuinely hopeful. Maybe she will disappear, maybe you can really find a door on the back of your closet - but you can’t, and she didn’t, and he was embarrassed and his friends were slightly pissed, but the worst part is that he learned nothing from the experience.

Twenty years later and he still hasn’t learned when to stop before losing face. Fernando knows he needs to let go of Stevie before it destroys him - both of them, really - but he is not entirely sure he’s willing to. He feels as though he’s got Stevie locked up in a closet, waiting for magic to happen and for all the shit to just disappear, for them to be saved. How can something so good finish so fast? How do you let go of something that was so right until, like, yesterday? His brain refuses to accept that it’s over, and he’s holding on to that last minute of hope. He’s been holding on to it for days.

But deep down he knows that Stevie’s still going to be there when he opens the closet again. Probably with Xabi. 

It’s about time Fernando starts learning how to let things go. 

“I think we have to,” Fernando finally says, after a long spell of silence. 

“Hey,” Dan says, scooting over and patting the empty spot next to him on the concrete box he made a seat of. “You don’t have to think about that right now.”

The Spaniard smiles and sits, bumping his shoulder lightly against Dan’s. “What is this, a pity party?”

“Something like that.” The Dane leans over to the side and produces a second bottle of champagne, which Fernando gladly takes. “To stupid boyfriends,” Daniel says, grinning.

Fernando clinks their bottles together on a toast. “Cheers to that!”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I apologize for all the mistakes you will certainly find. English is not my first language and the chapter has not been beta'ed by a native speaker.

This is really stupid, Stevie thinks. Although stupid is probably not the word. Stupid doesn’t even begin to describe it.

He was determined to let Xabi rot in his stupid room waiting for him while he drank away his frustrations at the bar. But some instinct had kicked in out of the blue and, before he could even realize what he was doing, his legs had guided him all the way here. Xabi has some sort of secret pact with his body and it keeps disobeying his orders to follow the Spaniard’s every wish.

Stevie stares at the golden numbers on the door - 718 - with something akin to panic twisting and turning his insides. He’s aware that he is slightly inebriated, but it is not, by a mile, enough for him to blame it on the booze. That’s not why he’s here. 

The sound of his own knock on the door echoes loud around the long corridor, makes him want to duck and hide. It feels like every wall has eyes and every door have ears and they’re all watching him, judging him. He hasn’t even done anything yet and he’s already being consumed by guilt. It’s a pretty strong indication that he shouldn’t be here to begin with, that he should be downstairs, following Fernando around like a hawk, making sure he remembers he still has a boyfriend, like it or not.

“It’s open!” comes a muffled shout from the inside, accent sounding thicker through the door. This is his last chance to turn around, run away and make things right for once. Only lately the line between the things he should do and what he ends up doing after all is getting way too blurred. He turns on the doorknob and hurries inside, like a burglar - actually, more like an unfaithful husband, which is pretty much what he is - before anyone can see him.

Stevie likes to think that his situation is ‘complicated’ and ‘hard to understand’, but it’s not. He’s an unfaithful boyfriend just like any other unfaithful boyfriend who’s ever cheated on their partners with an ex, and hardly the first one who thought that ‘it’s complicated’ was a good enough excuse. He’s a cliché, that’s what he is. A sneaking-into-hotel-rooms-while-his-boyfriend-waits-for-him-downstairs cliché - the worst kind there is.

Xabi is sitting on the bed, one leg crossed over the other, his bow tie nowhere to be seen. The Spaniard regards him with a soft sort of amusement, a pleasant smile that talks of genuine satisfaction rather than irony. He waits until Stevie’s shut the door behind him before he speaks. “I knew you’d come.”

“Did you?” Stevie asks, leaning his back against the door. “Because I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You just wanted really hard to believe that you wouldn’t.”

The truth always stings, doesn’t it?

Stevie glances away, inspects the room. It’s expensive, but not at all fancy. The cheapest kind of room one can get at any given five stars hotel: comfortable but absolutely impersonal. Seems fitting, he reckons; they are both overpaid, overdressed bastards who hide their cheapness behind designer clothes and stupid haircuts. First class rooms are meant for first class people. They got something that demanded first class payment, but didn’t deliver first class aura. Quite right.

When Xabi gets up and walks towards him, Stevie holds his breath. The other man stops at arm’s-length distance, surveying him up and down, taking in his shoes, his suit, his tie and even the styling of his hair as though this is the first time he lays eyes on him tonight. “I like your outfit,” Xabi says, approvingly, and reaches out to touch his face. “Did you choose it all by yourself?”

Stevie doesn’t reply, because, honestly. He’s in no mental state for small talk, not right now, not in this room. Xabi grabs his tie, rubs his thumb against the silk, then slowly slides it down until he gets to the first button of Stevie’s jacket. 

The Spaniard locks eyes with him, arching his eyebrows in a silent request for permission. Stevie remains impassive; there’s a voice screaming in his head that he should push Xabi away, tell him no, tell him it’s over, but Stevie’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, that’s not what is going to come out. It’s usually what happens when Xabi’s around. Apparently, though, silence is enough for the Spaniard. Either that or he simply doesn’t care.

Languidly, he undoes button by button on Stevie’s jacket, pulling it open to wrap his arms around his waist on a loose embrace. He places one kiss on his cheek, then another one on his neck - and Stevie closes his eyes as a very distinctive shiver goes up his spine and makes every hair on his body bristle. 

“I knew you’d come,” Xabi whispers in between kisses. “Your boyfriend is cute, Steven. But it’s not us.”

The sheer arrogance of that affirmation is annoying, enough so that it sends a momentary shot of good sense through him. “Who said I wanted it to be us?” he asks, placing both his hands on Xabi’s chest and pushing him away - gently, but with determination. The Spaniard gives him a puzzled look, but complies. “I thought you said you wanted to talk.”

“Things never turn out well when we start talking,” Xabi explains around a sigh. “I thought I’d make things easier for us.”

“You mean like you made it easier by introducing yourself to my boyfriend?”

“I already apologized for that.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, your apologies mean shit nothing to me. I’ve had it up to here with you apologizing. Not once did you mean it and that’s all you’ve been doing since you decided to climb out of the hole you spent the last two years hiding in.”

Xabi lifts his arms and lets them fall heavily beside his body again, in a ‘See?’ sort of gesture. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”

“You’re always trying to avoid the important things. Jesus, Xabi. It was less than two days ago that we had a conversation about that. Did you listen to anything I said? Fuck - did you even _mean_ anything _you_ said?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then why don’t you fucking act like it?!”

The Spaniard stares at him for long seconds before letting out a tired sigh and sitting back down on the bed. “I didn’t want us to end like this,” he starts. “I was hoping we could have a better day today than the last time. I think it’s pretty much established that talking is not going to take either of us anywhere. I can’t tell you what you want to hear, you can’t tell me what I want either, so… We end up arguing. And I didn’t want to fight today.”

“If your idea of a better day begins with shaking hands with my boyfriend, then you’re not off to a very good start.”

“I wasn’t thinking at all.”

“You? Not thinking? That’s hard to buy. You don’t take one single step without knowing what’s ahead of you.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? If this isn’t proof enough that I can be as impulsive as anyone else, I don’t know what is. Killing someone wouldn’t be as far detached from my normal self as this.” 

Stevie thinks that Xabi’s life philosophies are deceptively simple. His trick is making his exuberance distract from his true feelings, thus creating an aura of cool detachment around himself. It’s easier not to care when you look like everything’s beneath you. He should probably write a book on that.

“I haven’t changed my mind, Xabi,” Stevie says. “Everything I told you the other day is still true.”

“I know. I just thought…” He shrugs. “I don’t know what I thought. I wanted to take something good with me back to Spain.”

Stevie frowns at him. “Are you leaving?” Xabi regards him for a moment, then nods his head, lightly. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

It’s a weird thing, expectations. Doesn’t matter how hard you tell yourself something, your brain always finds a breach to make you secretly believe the opposite. Sometimes you don’t even know something can disappoint you until it does.

Stevie was always aware that Xabi was bound to leave, sooner rather than later. He’s not even sure he wants him to stay. But he still feels let down upon hearing the confirmation. Xabi comes here, has a bit of fun, ruins his life again and then goes back to beautiful, sun-bathed Spain, where he can eat tapas and fuck white-teethed, oily-haired men and not worry about the consequences. There are no consequences with that kind of people and it's safely enough away from England that whatever shit he does here now will not follow him all the way to Madrid.

There seems to be a script to how things go with Xabi. It’s always longing, waiting, expecting, and then the inevitable rush of disappointment.

“Were you even going to tell me that?”

“I just did.”

He wasn’t, Stevie knows. If this had gone how he planned, he wouldn’t have told him he was leaving. They’re not together this time, so, technically, there’s no obligation to properly end things. Last time, Xabi literally informed him a day before he was gone. Why would he even bother at all now?

Stevie can’t even say he’s surprised.

“Since when have you known that?”

“Last night.” He makes a pause. “Are you disappointed?”

“What do you think?”

“I can’t stay here, Steven.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then why are you disappointed?”

“Because you did exactly what I thought you would and for some reason - maybe I’m just too naïve - I was hoping you would stun me. You came here, you cocked things up, you had your fun, and now you’re gone like nothing happened.”

“That’s not true.”

He lets out a shaky, mirthless laughter. Stevie thinks about saying something like ‘Sure’ or ‘Yes’ or ‘Whatever you say, Xabs’, just because he figures that’s a pause he’s supposed to be filling. But none of it would mean anything anyway, so he just says nothing. 

This thing with Xabi, it’s hard to figure it out. There’s a genuine desire here to get close again, from both their parts, but it is all beaten by the tacit acknowledgment that reconciliation is simply impossible. They can’t speak about the past, because the past hurts, and they can’t talk about the present either, because the present sucks. It leaves nothing other than a few good memories and a lot of scars.

Stevie wanted so badly to understand the melancholy caused by Xabi, the emptiness he left and that never really seemed to go away, that he ended up forgetting the most important thing: Xabi will never be part of his future again. All that promise, all that love, that’s just gone. Buried. It doesn’t matter anymore. What he has now is Fernando. And Fernando’s not worse than Xabi, or less important than Xabi; Stevie loves him just the same way. Maybe more. Certainly in a different manner. Fernando’s just not as complicated. Fernando doesn’t seem to be constantly escaping him, hiding something, thinking ahead of him, beyond him.

Xabi used to make him frightened and jumpy and insecure. With him, it always felt as though Stevie were on a manhunt; at any given time, Xabi could decide that he was too much trouble, or worthless, or not good enough. Stevie always, deep inside, thought that one day Xabi would meet someone else - which he didn’t - or decide he didn’t want to be in a relationship after all - which he did. He had to keep his eyes wide open at all times and not even then did he realize he was about to get dumped until it happened. 

Fernando is - was; and thinking in the past already with his boyfriend is kinda killing him a little bit - nothing like that. He didn’t make himself a shell Stevie was supposed to crack, or spoke in cryptic words. With Fernando, what you see is what you get. And perhaps because of that, of how easy and accessible and certain he felt, Stevie was dragged back into Xabi’s dilemma. It didn’t feel like he was giving something up for that. But now he knows he was.

Fernando was never going to leave him. Except now he might. Probably will. He’s quite possibly in love with Daniel. Now Xabi goes back to Spain, and he goes back to being alone. This seems to be the only constant in their story.

“If there was an award for the Most Stupid Person of the Year, I’d have no competitors,” he speaks to no one in particular.

“You’d have me,” Xabi says.

Stevie shakes his head with determination. “You wouldn’t even come close.”

“Why not?”

“You didn’t fuck up anything to be here.”

Xabi purses his lips and stares at him for a moment. He stands up, stuffs his hands in his trousers’ front pockets, and says, “We all have our priorities, Steven. Yours is Fernando, mine is my career. You think he’s more important than my job, but he’s not. Not from my point of view anyway.”

He turns around, walks to the nightstand and picks up his mobile. Steven watches as he moves his fingers deftly over the screen, sliding it from one side to the other, before starting again. “Ah. Five days.”

“What?”

“Five days. That’s how long it took me to call at the office to check on everything. I left my entire career in the hands of my assistant, who’s a caffeine-addict lunatic. His biggest ambition in life is to have sex with the head of the company, and I left my life’s work entirely to him, just because I _had_ to be here, _had_ to come and see you. And it took me five days to make contact. That’s completely insane. It’s unimaginable, _unacceptable_. I don’t think I’ve spent more than three straight hours without working in the last two years, but I got in a plane and came here and I didn’t think about that until after our conversation the other day. You say I didn’t fuck anything up - I might’ve fucked up a lot of things to be here. I could even lose my job. And I love my job, Steven. I really do. I don’t want to compare a job to a boyfriend, but this is something that matters to me." 

Xabi pauses, looks down at his own shoes, and then adds, “What I’m trying to say is - coming here meant something. It meant something huge. I miss you. I miss you every day. Well, maybe not every day, but certainly when I stop to think about whether there’s anything else I would want to have in my life, then I miss you. Because you’re the only thing that’s missing. But the only way to have you would be to ask you to come with me, and I’m not going to pretend that that’s even a remote possibility to you, I know it isn’t. This is your city, it’s your place, this is where you do your music and I wouldn’t want to take that away from you. But that’s just it, then. We can’t have everything.”

“But you wanted everything, that’s why you came here.”

“Don’t we all? Don’t you want everything? Don’t you wish you could have both Fernando and me?”

“Not anymore,” Stevie says. He did think that, for a while. Wondered whether he could love two people at the same time and keep seeing Xabi and not hurt Fernando and so on. It all seems rather juvenile now, a really ignorant sort of consideration. He’s only sorry it took him so long to realize he was wrong.

“Well…” Xabi says, with a disheartened drop of his shoulders. “I wanted to know what it felt like to have everything. And it was pretty good. But I know I can't keep it.”

It lasts only a second, but for a moment there Stevie almost feels sorry for Xabi. He must be a very lonely man. Someone as dedicated as he is to his job doesn’t have time to get involved with anyone, probably doesn’t even want to. Love gets in the way of things that need to be done. Xabi is more practical than that. Stevie’s probably not the greatest love of his life - maybe that was Harry, who came before him, or someone else before that, or maybe it’s not even a person at all, but something like a dream (‘ambition’, as Xabi would put it), or his job, or himself - but he’s perhaps the last person Xabi’s loved. His love life is as successful as that Cristiano Roberto’s fake tan, and that is a truly sad thing. Stevie’s had one night stands that meant more to him than that. Xabi doesn’t know what’s like to have a Fernando, and for that reason Stevie feels sorry for him.

But then he remembers that, because of Xabi, he’s very, very close to not having a Fernando himself anymore, and the remorse is gone.

“He’s not speaking to me anymore,” Stevie begins. “I don’t really know why. It just stopped. I guess it got too weird. I don’t think we’ll be making it through the night, not after… Well.” It still gives him the creeps to think about that handshake session today. Once he cools down and replays the scene in his head, he’s sure he’ll conclude that it was a lot worse than he thinks now. “I guess that makes us both miserable, then. No one wins.”

Xabi’s eyes flicker away from him for a second, then back again. “I’m sorry, Steven,” he says, almost as a whisper, underscored with hurt.

“Yeah,” Stevie nods his head. “I’m sorry too.”

Stevie still remembers as if it was yesterday the day Xabi left. There was a lot of screaming, mostly on his part, a lot swearing and cursing and breaking things. This feels almost anti-climactic in comparison. It’s awfully quiet, awfully civil. The pain in his chest and the hurt as he turns around and leaves the room are still the same, though. But putting it out is not worth it anymore. There’s no need for tears and yelling or enraged outbursts. This is what they were reduced to: frosty silences and a lot of angry glares.

Stevie stops by the elevator, presses the button and turns his head to look back at where he just came from. Xabi is a fan of love stories that end with people dead or hurt or separated or singing melancholic songs about broken hearts. He was always on about those old movies and books that made Stevie fall asleep within five minutes. But he can kind of see the appeal now. That’s exactly the kind of love story they are. The kind that burns as intensely as it possibly can before fading away and becoming just a knot in the stomach. The kind of love story that ends.

The elevator comes and Stevie knows no one will be chasing no one anymore.

x-x-x

Stevie has a feeling that if he finds Daniel, he’ll find Fernando as well, and the fact that this is bothering the hell out of him is really an understatement. 

As soon as he leaves Xabi, he's immediately consumed by a mad desire to find his boyfriend. He isn’t even sure what he wants to say, or do; it's more about simply having him in his line of sight than about taking real action. Maybe there's still something he can do to try and salvage whatever is left of their relationship. He's willing to do whatever Fernando asks him to. He’ll let the Spaniard come up with the worst kind of punishment he can think of and he’ll oblige without a hint of a whine. Anything to go back to normal and pretend this madness never happened. He's even willing to overlook the fact that Fernando has been unofficially doing his fair share of wrongness himself. Doesn’t matter anymore. They just have to fix it.

But after half an hour it becomes clear Fernando isn’t at the party anymore, so Stevie starts getting riled up and his hopefulness is gradually replaced by annoyance. 

There's a side of him certain that the pair of them had the same stupid idea as Xabi and got themselves a room. Stevie’s primary wish is to hunt them down like the fucking inquisition. But some tiny, little restless voice in some far corner of his very confused head keeps him from settling with that course of action and he just has to keep walking, up and down the hotel, like a drunk man in the dark. Stevie goes in and out of rooms and bathrooms and elevators until he finally ends up at the roof.

He is only partly relieved upon finding Daniel and Fernando sitting side by side, sharing a bottle of champagne and apparently having a good time. They aren’t having sex, which is a good thing. But on the other hand, Fernando looks so much at ease, so carefree and just plain happy, laughing with Daniel, that he can’t help but feel that bubble of jealousy rising in his chest. Maybe if they were having angry, vengeful, petty sex right now it would be better, because it would be about Stevie and probably about being depressed and upset. Two people laughing innocently together, though? That's a completely different thing.

It’s been a while since Stevie last saw his boyfriend this much at ease because of something he did. Less than a week, really, but his days are stretching out like months lately. It was a month ago that he last touched Fernando, it was last year that they were in Madrid and everything went kaput. He feels ten years older since this whole thing started.

They are so enraptured in their conversation that it takes them a moment to notice they’re not alone anymore, and it’s Daniel who elbows Fernando and nods towards Stevie. The moment his boyfriend’s eyes meet his, the line of his mouth immediately curves downwards and Stevie wants to slap that displeasure away from his face.

Fernando turns the bottle against his lips, takes a long sip and then sighs. “If you’re looking for a place to sulk, you should go somewhere else. This spot is already taken.”

Stevie bites on the inside of his lips; what he really wants to do is grab Fernando by the lapel of his jacket and shake him out of whatever it is that is going through his head right now. But he hangs in there, takes a discreet breath and remains quiet. 

“What?” Fernando asks, showing signs of impatience. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go? What do you want?”

“I was looking for you,” he replies, calmly.

Fernando snorts. “Right.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You snorted.”

“So?”

“Why did you snort?”

Fernando rolls his eyes and nearly falls off the little concrete box he’s sharing with Daniel, who stays very quiet and acts like he’s not even there. So fucking thoughtful of him.

“Isn’t there _somewhere_ you should be?” Fernando asks again, stressing his words for emphasis.

Stevie frowns, confused. Fernando’s talking about something very specific here and he’s not really sure he’s following it. “What are you talking about?”

“For fuck’s sake, Stevie. Xabi, of course.” 

Well. Fuck. How does he know about that?

Stevie feels his body going stiff and cold and he knows he probably doesn’t have a very dignifying expression right about now, but he tries to act with as much poise as he possibly can. When he opens his mouth, however, all that comes out is, “What?”

Fernando shakes his head reprovingly like a parent who sees their kid doing something bad, like writing on the walls or kicking a ball around in the living room. “You’re honestly going to tell me that you weren’t with Xabi?”

“I…” Stevie starts, then stops; there are loads and loads of replies he could give right now, but for a moment they all seem fundamentally untruthful. It’s not something that can be summed in either ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He was with Xabi, yes, but not in the way Fernando’s thinking, and that needs to be clarified. But he’ll be damned if that’s the kind of conversation he’ll be having in front of Daniel. “Can you get lost?” he asks, turning to the Dane.

“We were here first, you go,” Daniel replies.

Before he even has time to react, though, Fernando grabs Daniel’s wrist and locks eyes with him. “Dan,” his boyfriend says, softly. “I’ll meet you in a minute, yeah?”

_Jesus. Fucking Christ._

It literally takes everything Stevie has in him not to thump someone right then, because hell. Fernando is being _intimate_ and _sweet_ and talking to Daniel as though he owes him something, and last time Stevie checked, he was still the boyfriend. Is this Fernando’s way of getting back at him for the whole Cristiano Ronaldo incident earlier?

It’s a test to his power of self-control.

Stevie keeps his eyes trained on Fernando while Daniel gets up and gets lost. He can’t guarantee he won’t punch the Dane if their eyes meet, even if just for one tiny, little second, and that’s not going to look nice on ONTD tomorrow. Carra is going to kill someone and his life is sufficiently hard as it is right now without Jamie barking at his face.

As soon as he hears the heavy roof door falling shut behind Daniel, he finally lets out a heavy gust of air he didn’t even know he had been holding back.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he demands.

Fernando gets up and sighs. “What was what?” he asks, uninterestedly.

“You and Daniel.”

Fernando watches him in silence for a moment. “How’s Xabi?”

Stevie swallows down hard now. “I wasn’t - I didn’t do what you think I did.”

“So you weren’t with him?”

“I was with him, but -”

“Then you did exactly what I thought you did.”

“I wasn’t fucking him!” Stevie nearly shouts, angry now.

Fernando makes a face - one that says he doesn’t believe him. 

“I wasn’t!” Stevie repeats. “We were talking.”

“Right. You got a room to _talk_.”

“I didn’t get anything, he did.”

“And that makes a lot of difference.”

“ _We just talked_.” Stevie bites on every word as they come out, speaking slowly for emphasis. “Xabi wanted… to do whatever Xabi wanted to do, but nothing happened.”

“Stop, Stevie!” Fernando exclaims, with real heat in his voice this time, finally showing some kind of emotion. “Stop lying! Jesus! I know you’ve been screwing him!”

“I didn’t -” Stevie stops, because his first instinct here is to insist on the lie. He’s been doing it for enough time now that it became his natural response. But screw it. Screw lying and screw Xabi and screw everything else as well. He’s tired of this bullshit. “I didn’t say I didn’t fuck him,” he says instead. “I just said I didn’t do it today.”

Fernando lets out a humorless little laugh and shakes his head. “Well, that’s… Very nice of you. Thank you.”

“You’re one to talk!” Stevie adds, a lot more aggressively than he intended, but not different from how he really feels. “You’ve been shagging Daniel.”

“Yes!” Fernando shouts and throws his hands up in the air. “Yes, yes, yes! Yes, Stevie, I have been fucking Daniel! Finally! I can scream it to the fucking world now! I HAVE BEEN FUCKING DANIEL!”

When Stevie tried to picture how this conversation would go, he thought there would be yelling, certainly lots of accusations, maybe some offenses, hurtful things in general. He imagined plates flying, an inexhaustible and all-consuming anger and a sense of bitterness that would be greater than anything he’s ever felt before. 

He never thought this, right here, would be how things would go down for them. But then again, he’s had that same thought about so many things in the last seven days that perhaps he should’ve seen the unexpected coming. Still, it just seems awful, like gut-wrenching-heartbreaking-nauseatingly awful. The way this is going, with so much bitterness and anger, and Fernando shouting with pride to the whole world to hear that he has been fucking some other man, them standing on the top of a random building that is completely impersonal and also very oppressive... It feels like the entire universe can hear them at the same time this incredible sensation of loneliness seems to engulf Stevie from the inside out, like a black hole was just created somewhere in his chest.

Stevie is shocked, at first, then hurt, then angry, then everything at once, and he suddenly finds himself short of things to say. He has opinions, on Fernando, on Daniel on why they’ve been fooling around, on Xabi, on how and why things went wrong. But none of it seems to be of any relevance when his boyfriend is shouting his infidelity as if it’s a relief to get that out of his chest. Like Daniel’s not a secret he wants to keep, but rather a wonderful thing he could barely wait to share with everyone else. 

Fernando lets his arms fall heavily beside him. “Say something,” he demands. His eyes are blazing with fury and he’s ready for The Talk now. Except the talk wouldn’t be a talk at all; it would be a huge, epic fight, and Stevie doesn’t want to be doing that on this stupid rooftop, with this stupidly drunk Fernando. 

Instead of shouting all the things he’s been clogging at his throat, he swallows it all down and turns around.

“Hey!” Fernando calls out. “Where the fuck are you going?! Stevie! You can’t leave now! Don’t you want to yell at me? Go on, then! You can't walk away now!

He stops and turns around again. Stevie is trying to keep it in mind that Fernando’s drunk, so it is very possible that he’s not fully aware of what he’s saying and that he’s also triggered by some level of anger towards him here, considering that moment earlier with Xabi, but still. None of this is doing much to appease the growing fury inside of him and he feels - no, actually, he _knows_ \- that if they start this here, they’re not going to stop until the entire hotel knows what’s going on.

“We’re not done,” he says, trying his best to keep his voice civil. “We’ll talk this through when we’re home.”

“We’re gonna talk this through right now!” Fernando insists.

“We’re not fucking doing anything right now!” Stevie shouts between clenched teeth, aggressive and heated up and one step away from doing something he’ll regret very much. Even now he knows they’ll be at each other’s throats in a second if they continue. “I can’t fucking deal with you, Fernando!”

“ _You_ can’t deal with me?! You’ve got to be kidding me, Stevie! You don’t even have the decency to _pretend_ that you’re not jealous of him in front of me, you get a room to ‘ _TALK_ ’ to your lover when I’m right here, and _you_ can’t deal with _me_?!” 

“I’m not fucking proud of it, am I?! I’m ashamed and I’m embarrassed and I’ve been looking for you for hours to _apologize_ , while you are screaming at my face that you’ve been sucking that twat’s cock like that’s the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to you!”

Maybe it’s what he says, maybe it’s how loud he says it, or how angrily, but it does shut Fernando up. He looks offended, his features contorting into a bitchface, and Stevie’s not even sorry - Fernando _should_ be offended, he should be embarrassed, he should be fucking sorry.

“Get yourself together, stop with the bloody drinking and don’t try to start a scene in here. No one needs to suffer because we’re a pair of fucking idiots. We’ll deal with this when we get home.”

Stevie doesn’t even wait to hear whether Fernando would have anything else to add. He wants to get the hell out of there as fast as he can, but he knows he can’t; he gotta have a drink, cool down and preferably not lay eyes on either Fernando or Xabi for the rest of the evening. 

x-x-x

Fernando is drunk and in a car park when he tells Stevie he doesn’t want to be with him anymore.

Stevie isn’t in the car park with him. He’s home, waiting for him to arrive, probably rehearsing every phrase and every comma and every pause he’ll make during The Talk, that bitter conversation they’ve been postponing for ages. Fernando’s supposed to be there with him, hours ago even, but he isn’t, and that’s why Stevie calls - _Where are you? What’s taking you so long? Why weren’t you at the gala when I left?_

Fernando doesn’t mean to do that through the phone. It sort of slips out. He’s drunk and tired and he remembers Xabi Alonso and Cristiano Ronaldo and Stevie yelling at him on the roof and something in him just goes off.

“Are you alone?” Stevie asks. He doesn’t want to say ‘yes’, because that would be a lie; but he doesn’t want to say ‘no’ either, because then Stevie will just start shouting and they’ll have to have that conversation right here, right now, and the fact that there’s a chance that he’s right is completely irrelevant to Fernando in his current state of inebriation, so he just sighs. And Stevie goes, ‘What?’, and he says ‘Nothing’, and he asks again ‘What?’, and Fernando repeats, ‘Nothing’, and then he says ‘Fernando’, and, well… That’s the point where you just have to plough on, isn’t it?

“I don’t want to be together anymore,” he says. And that’s it.

It’s not that he’s heartless or that he doesn’t care. He does care. A lot. But the thing is, he knows exactly how this will go. They’re going to fight, and get angry(er) at each other, and then they’ll proceed to discuss point by point every single screw up of the last few weeks and there were so many Fernando can’t even remember anymore. Stevie will say something and he’ll defend himself and then accuse Stevie of something else and then it’ll be his turn to say whatever it is he thinks justifies what he’s done, and that’ll go on forever until they run out of things to say about the other one or for themselves. By the time they’re done, they’ll be hurt and beaten and broken and hating one other a lot more than when the whole quarrel started.

There’s no way they’ll ever get a clean break, not after today. But Fernando’s so fucking exhausted and the only thing he’s thinking of right now is: what’s the point anyway? If they can’t work things out, then why even bother with The Talk at all?

The answer is: there is no point. So he goes ahead and says it, because in the end one of them would have to, anyway, and he’s drunk, so it’s easy to do that right now. Everything is easier when you’re drunk.

“You… what?” Stevie asks.

“We’re not together anymore,” he repeats.

“Are you… breaking up with me… through the phone?” There’s a big hint of disbelief on his now ex-boyfriend’s voice. Fernando hadn’t really thought of that. He never pegged himself as the kind of person who breaks up with others through the phone, but that self-assessment will need to be revised. Apparently that’s exactly the kind of person he is.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” and he hangs up.

There’s a frosty feeling in the air inside the car afterwards. It’s what endings are like, Fernando thinks. It’s razor-sharp and awkward and it hurts. For a moment there he just doesn’t know what to do. It’s like someone turned off a key inside of him, like there’s a chamber in his heart - one where he kept Stevie and their home and breakfasts in bed - that has just been completely shut down. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just grief, but the fact is he’s completely lost. So much so he nearly forgets Daniel is sitting next to him. 

The Dane doesn’t say anything, just stares, somewhat apologetic and also possibly embarrassed. He looks like he doesn’t know whether he wants to shrink back into himself and disappear or offer Fernando some solace or a hug or something. 

Fernando feels a little bad for him. This isn’t the kind of conversation other people should listen to. Especially not other people who are directly involved. He doesn’t want to make Daniel his accomplice or anything, but it’s not like he was planning on breaking up with Stevie. Not now, anyway.

He tries to come up with something to break the ice, or just to reassure Daniel and let him know that he’s fine and that he’s sorry he had to hear that, but what he says is, “I don’t think I can go home now,” because, as it turns out, that’s the biggest concern in his head right this moment. 

Daniel had offered to give him a ride home; while he drank his life away at the bar, Daniel had sobered up and eventually dragged him out of the party through the back door, so that no one would see, and led him for a walk around the car park. Fernando just lied down on a car hood and stared at the dark, dark sky until it started spinning as though it would fall on him and he figured it was time to go home. 

He was going to go home. That was always the plan. He was going to face Stevie and they’d have The Talk, face to face, as they should. But then Stevie called, and, well… It slipped.

“’Suppose not,” Daniel agrees, sheepishly.

“Can I crash at yours tonight?”

Daniel takes a moment to answer. He seems a little uncertain. Fernando wonders when was it that _he_ became the unpredictable and reckless part of this relationship. If he can even call whatever it is that he has with Daniel a _relationship_. He thinks no one's come up with a name for what they're doing yet. Well, other than _betrayal_ , of course. 

He can see how this is a little awkward - he just broke up with his boyfriend, Daniel is kind of involved, they’re all in the same band… It could come out as somewhat disrespectful to spend the night together. Isn’t it a little… well… heartless? 

Even in the state he’s in, Fernando knows that, under normal circumstances, this is something he wouldn’t ask of Daniel. He would probably not feel comfortable with it himself. Well, he wouldn’t have broken up with Stevie through the phone anyway, would he? But imagining a bizarre circumstance that could’ve led him to do that, he’d just ask Daniel to drop him at some hotel where he could spend the night, totally alone, sleep the hangover away the next day and think about how many kinds of shit he’s currently buried under.

There’s a tiny side of him, a little voice on the back of his mind, telling him that he’ll regret this, that it’s not right. But he’s too drunk to care. And anyway, Daniel says yes, so that’s decided then.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably going to have a lot of silly mistakes. It's way too late and my eyes are so, so tired. So I ask you to please be kind and understanding as you always are (thank you for that, btw).
> 
> I now know for sure that there are only two more chapters to go after this one. So I hope you enjoy it. :) Feedback, as always, is much welcome.

His head is positively going to explode. 

Fernando can’t remember when was the last time he had so much to drink in one single night, but then again he can’t remember many things right now. It takes him whole five minutes to even recognize the place where he is. Which he does with a drunken sort of panic.

It’s Daniel’s house. Daniel’s living room. Daniel’s stupidly kinky couch. 

Right. 

Slowly, the puzzle starts to come together in his head - not without a good measure of pain, mind you. Daniel took him home, tried to take him upstairs, but he refused to go and decided to crash on his couch. At the moment, it seemed like a grand, honorable gesture; now, though, he’s not so sure how not sharing a bed with Daniel gives him any bonus points for dignity. All things considered, sounds like it really doesn’t make a difference.

He can taste bile and alcohol in his mouth and there isn’t an inch of muscle on his body that doesn’t ache. It’s as though he got on the worst end of a beating up the night before. Fernando had no idea guilt could hurt. Like, actually physically hurt. It’s the only explanation for the awful state he's in; he’s had hangovers before, but nothing quite this bad. His body is betraying its master, punishing his brain for having such an unfortunate lack of aptitude when it comes to decision-making. 

His head is seriously going to hatch something awful any minute now. 

When he finally manages to regain enough energy to get up, he paddles across the house until he finds the bathroom. It’s pathetic, really, a 29 year-old man looking like a particularly scruffy crackhead. Fernando feels his eyes watering a little bit when he starts brushing his teeth with his finger, desperate to try and get some of that awful taste from his mouth, but he dismisses it as part of feeling sick, rather than feeling broken.

He wonders what would happen if someone took a picture of him right now and uploaded it to ONTD. Some dozens of fans who think he’s the God’s gift to human race might decide to rethink their Red Kop favoritism. 

Fernando finds Daniel making himself a sandwich in the kitchen, looking like a rich ray of sunshine in comparison, which is saying a lot.

The Dane watches him with concern etched on every line of his face while making an effort to seem casual; it only makes him look strange in a sort of funny way. Or it would be funny, if Fernando were in that kind of mood. The unbroken stream of waves in his stomach is draining so much out of the beauty of life for him right now… 

Daniel waits for him to sit down on a stool - more like throw himself against it while hoping to land on the right spot - and says, “Good morning”. 

Fernando grunts something incomprehensible in response and leans over to press his forehead against the kitchen counter. The Spaniard identifies the sound of Daniel padding around the kitchen, opening cabinet doors and then the sound of water running before he comes back and places something in front of him. It’s a glass of water and two little white pills. 

Fernando doesn’t even ask; whatever this is, even if it’s poison or soporific or an illegal drug of some sort, anything to stop the hammering in his head, it is welcome. He takes the two pills at once and knocks back the water with the same dexterity he downed the vodka the night before. Daniel takes the glass away, fills it once more, and gives it back. “You’re gonna need to have lots of this,” he says. “You drank some pretty mean shit last night.” 

“Mean shit,” Fernando repeats, his voice raspy and barely there. “Sounds about right.”

“Do you want one?” Dan asks, pointing at the sandwich with his knife. 

Fernando makes a face and shakes his head - very slowly. “I can’t eat anything right now.” 

“You should.” 

“It’s not even gonna go all the way down to my stomach before it comes back out.” 

“Well. In that case…” He throws an olive in his mouth and continues to prepare his food. 

There’s a moment of silence before Fernando speaks again. “Did I really break up with Stevie?” The night is so hazy he’s not sure whether that happened or if he dreamt it. 

“Yup,” Daniel says. “Over the phone.” 

“Jesus Christ…” Fernando feels a sharp wave of pain shooting right through him and hangs his head low again, resting his forehead on his palms. 

Daniel hesitates an instant and then asks, “What are you gonna do now?” 

“I don’t even know what I did last night.” 

“You can stay here for as long as you need. Until, you know… You figure things out.” 

It’s a very tempting idea, he must say. Maybe he can just stay here forever. He’ll avoid Stevie for the rest of his life. Sounds like a plan.

He reckons, though, that if you’re stupid enough to deal with an already delicate situation by breaking up with someone through a phone call, then you probably deserve the dire consequences. 

“I can’t. I have to talk to him.” 

Daniel regards him for a moment. “Are you ok?” 

Fernando wants to laugh, but it would hurt too much, so he merely snorts. “I feel like absolute shit. Like I was run over by a garbage truck, and then it hit reverse and hit me again. I don’t think I’ve had a hangover this bad since the days when I still mixed alcohol inside Coca Cola bottles at the parking lot behind my school. And you know what? I’m in pain, I smell and I can’t even remember everything I did last night, but this, right now, is not even the worst part of my day yet. I still have to go home, where I expect a few layers of fresh shit are just waiting to hit the fan. Does that answer your question?” 

“You’re very good with descriptions.” 

“Thank you.” Fernando folds his arms over the counter and lays down his head. “Do me a favor and kill me now.”

“Hey…” Daniel places a gentle hand on his head, caressing his hair with the tip of his fingers. It feels really good. Not that it is actually doing anything for the pain, but the mere contact sends a tingly sensation down his body that eases away the tension for a moment. Fernando makes a soft, purring sound in appreciation and Daniel continues. “Things will work out in the end. We have all got master degrees in dealing with shit. You’ll manage.” 

“That’s very encouraging, Dan,” he says, not feeling encouraged at all. “What if it doesn’t work out?” 

“Well, then. At least you tried.” 

Fernando tilts his head up a bit, enough to look the Dane in the eyes. “That’s very lousy advice. We know what happened the last time we _tried_.”

“If everything else fails, then you can always crash here.” 

This is one odd relationship, Fernando thinks, whatever it is that he has with Daniel. They keep changing roles, it seems. Started out with Daniel trying to comfort him because Stevie had been fooling around. Then he was the one offering his shoulder for a cry when Dan’s overdosed boyfriend got back in town. Now it’s Dan’s turn to be the grown up again while he whimpers and nurtures death wishes. Fernando wonders what is going to happen to the pair of them when they decide to go batshit crazy at the same time. 

“Thanks for the offer,” he says, taking a deep breath for courage. “I suppose I should be going now.” 

“Don’t you want to take a shower first?” 

“Are you kidding me? Stevie’s not going to let me into the house if I show up there bathed. I need to look at least half as bad as I feel if I want to…” he trails off. Fernando realizes he’s been thinking he needs to go home, but he’s got no idea what he’s going to do when he gets there. Should he apologize? Should he just pick up his things and leave? Is Stevie even going to see him? Does he even want to see Stevie? 

Who’s angry with whom now? These things got all very messed up in the space of one night. Fernando thinks he was keeping tabs with whose turn it was to hold the righteousness torch, but right now he simply has no idea.

What he does know, however, is that he’s handed over to Stevie a large part of the reason he previously had on his side on a fucking silver platter by dismissing him with a two minutes phone call and then drunkenly taking off to Daniel’s house. 

As far as break-ups go, Fernando can hardly think of a way of making it worse.

When he meets Daniel’s eyes again it dawns in him that settling things with Stevie is not even the end of this mess. Daniel’s quietly biting on his sandwich, but his eyes are ablaze with a million things that are probably going through his head.

Dealing with Stevie, hard though it may be, is pretty straightforward. There aren’t really many different outcomes to be expected. They’ve broken up, there’s no going back there. Stevie probably hates him now, will likely hate on him for a long while, and there’s simply nothing he can do about it. They need to talk, yell at each other, do their thing or whatever, but that’s it. 

Daniel, on the other hand… 

What are they even doing?, that is the reigning question. Daniel has a lot to do with a large part of how things turned out with Stevie, but what does it even mean? More importantly, how is Fernando ever going to give himself a chance to find out and not end up imploding The Red Kop? 

Fernando hangs his head low, looks away again; frankly, one angered ex-boyfriend is enough for now. 

He’s got to sober up, sleep this retched feeling in his stomach away and then think himself to death to try and make some sense out of all this - something that is rather problematic in itself, considering not-thinking is currently his favorite mode of being. 

Fernando wonders how he went from being someone who prided himself on being reasonable and diligent to this sodding bastard who’s got no idea what he’s doing anymore in such a short span. He feels like someone just put a blind over his eyes and he’s been tumbling his way around his circumstances ever since. Needless to say, it hasn’t been going very well for him, quite far from it.

“I need to go,” he announces, jumping to his feet. “Thank you. For everything. I have to… Go sort things out.” 

The Dane nods. “Do you want me to give you a ride?” 

“To Stevie’s?” Fernando cuts himself short before using the word 'home'. He doesn't know how to think of that place anymore; until yesterday, it was his home. Now, though, it might have gone back to being Stevie's only. And that... Well, if he says it doesn't sting a little, he'll be lying. It brings the acrid taste back to his mouth. “No, thanks. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, I can use the ride. I need a moment to sober up a little, you know… Get my shit back together and all that.” 

“Ok,” Dan says. 

Fernando starts, stops, tries to smile, but can’t; wants to leave, but doesn’t. He has to say something, he thinks, although he doesn’t really know what. That seems to be a recurrent thing in his life as of late. 

He looks back at Daniel and finds the Dane watching him speculatively. Fernando is one step away from a nervous breakdown while he seems calm and composed. Patient. It’s an odd version of Dan, this one. Maybe for the first time, for real, the Spaniard can see past the tattoos and the Mohawk and the drama and see just a man. One who has an infinite comprehension of how much of a pain life can actually be, and who shares an impossible understanding about hurt and regrets with him. Daniel as a reassuring figure. Who would ever guess?

“I know that we have… things to talk about. When this is… You know, when it’s…” He wants to say ‘fixed’, but that’s not really the word; he’s not about to go fix anything, he’s about to officially tear it all down to the last brick. He thinks of ‘solved’, but that’s not it either. There doesn’t really seem to be word for what he’s about to do. “Not this messed up, I guess. I can’t really deal with more than one thing at a time right now. Is that ok with you?” 

“Yeah,” Dan says, with all the ease in the world. “I’ll be waiting when you’re ready.” 

Fernando feels his legs start moving as if out of their own volition and suddenly he finds himself wrapping his arms around the Dane in a tight hug. He allows himself to bury his face on the curve of Daniel’s neck and just breathe him in. He is nervous; the way his pulse is racing, and how his hands are wrapped around Dan’s shirt, the huge lump in his throat. 

This moment, right now, is like entering Phase 2 of something, a phase potentially more serious than Phase 1. What Phase 1 and Phase 2 stand for, exactly, is not a concept that’s very clear on his mind, at least not about now. It should be, though, soon.

Phase 1 did involve all sorts of serious things - infidelity and deceit, to name two - but that phase is now over. Whatever happens next is bigger, more important, somehow. For the two of them, anyway. Stevie’s no longer a part of it. It’s down to just Daniel and himself.

In the beginning, Fernando felt like Daniel was just a blip, like a crumb he could brush off. But he wouldn’t be here right now if he was a crumb. He wouldn’t be feeling his heart drumming away inside his chest if Daniel had been nothing more than a blip. Stevie was the catalyst to something else. Now they need to figure out what, exactly. 

His love life was beautiful and steady as a rock until three weeks ago. Then a bomber named Xabi Alonso flew by and everything went kaput. Now he can’t really tell which end is up anymore. It’s just chaos, everywhere. 

When he finally pulls away, he quickly brushes his lips against Dan’s and resists the urge to let the kiss linger for a moment longer. “Thanks,” he says, softly. “For everything. And I’m sorry I dragged you into this situation.” 

Dan brushes Fernando’s face with the tip of his fingers, pinching his cheek just a little. “I dragged myself into it,” he says, with a grin. “And I’d do it all over again.” 

“I need some time, ok? Not a lot, just… A little while. To think. See what my life’s going to be like from now on.” 

“Take whatever time you need, Fernando. I’ll be right here.” 

He presses their lips together again, firmer this time. Like a promise. “I know.” 

x-x-x 

Xabi inhales a deep, contended breath as he takes in the familiarity of his surroundings. After one week - the longest in his set of typically long weeks - of a constant sense of discomfort, as though the city itself was repelling him the entire time, he is finally home. 

Nothing speaks of home to Xabi Alonso quite like his office. 

This is his sanctuary, a reminder of how far he’s come and why all the controversial choices he’s made in his life were all worth it. In here, there are no feelings of regret, of yearning; the cutting memories of what he’s left behind in order to reach his private goals cannot get to him within these walls. This is his fortress, his trophy - his big, beautiful office. 

Xabi’s not the crying type, but as he stands near his window, admiring the view of La Gran Vía and the sun-baked city, he sort of gets that sensation, like maybe he could cry, if he were like that. He’s crying on the inside. 

He’s happy to be home, but not fulfilled. There’s a brand new hole blown open somewhere inside of him. Xabi has been trying to shrug it off since he boarded that plane in Liverpool, but so far he's had no success. He can still feel it there, huge and empty and throbbing, like a reminder.

He’s good at brushing these things aside, the sort of feeling that, at the end of the day, doesn’t exactly add up to anything useful. But even as he feels that surge of contentment for being back in Madrid, he cannot get away from the sensation that there’s something missing. 

The trip to England made him different, somehow. Xabi had a glimpse of something that used to exist only as a hypothesis. Now he feels as though he’s facing his old life - because one week ago is suddenly so, so old - through some damaged camera lenses. Everything is right there as it’s supposed to be; only it’s all twisted and misty. 

The Spaniard sits down by his desk, turns on his computer and for a moment doesn’t really remember how to get back into his old shoes. He stares at the screen asking for his password for almost a minute before deciding to start with the basics: checking his e-mail. It’s probably a good way of reminding himself of all the business he left unfinished. 

There are hundreds and hundreds of unread messages and he’s pretty sure he told Miki at least a dozen times that he should check his inbox every single fucking hour of every motherfucking day to not let anything important go by unattended. 

And where the fuck is Mikel, anyway? 

Xabi picks up his phone and presses speed-dial #1.

The fact he and his assistant have been friends for a long time is not at all a mitigating factor as to why he is speed-dial number one on his mobile. The truth is that the most important person in Xabi's life is his secretary. Xabi never gave that much of a thought, but now he kind of thinks it’s a little sad. Practical, yes; but still sad. 

“Good morning, sunshine!” Miki greets him on the other end with his trademark buoyancy. Xabi’s missed him terribly, but he’ll be damned if he’ll ever let Mikel know that. 

“Where the hell are you, Arteta?” 

“Getting you welcome-back coffee, of course. Are you at the office already?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Didn’t think you’d be in so early on your first day.” 

“I'm not early, I'm exactly on time, unlike you.” 

“It’s for a good cause. I wanted to surprise you on your first day back, but I ended up getting caught in traffic.” 

“What traffic, Mikel? You take the subway to work.” 

Mikel chuckles on the other end. “There was a bit of traffic in my bathroom this morning.” Xabi can almost see the self-satisfied beam on his face. “I’ll tell you more about it when I get there.” 

“I’d like you to tell me more about why my e-mails haven’t been properly checked while I was gone?” 

“Oh. That,” Miki says, distractedly. “Yeah. That happened. Hey, is that decaf? I don’t want decaf - Xabs, would you like a muffin with your coffee? I’ll get you a muffin. As a gift, since it’s your first day and you sound cranky already.” 

Xabi rolls his eyes. “Just be here, will you?” 

“Vanilla or chocolate?” 

“What?” 

“The muffin.” 

“Whatever, Mikel. Five minutes or you’re fired. Vanilla.” 

He hangs up and takes a short breath, shaking his head helplessly, but not quite containing the smile dancing on the corner of his lips. Mikel is Xabi’s little secret. They’ve been friends since they were kids, but parted ways when Xabi decided to go to England. He was the first person Xabi called when he arrived back in Spain for good - not his parents, not his brother. Mikel. 

He’ll never admit that outloud, but it’s good to have an insane person around, sometimes. It helps him keep his own sanity in check. Besides, Mikel is fun. And a good fuck, if he really needs one and can’t bother to look elsewhere. 

Xabi’s half-way through his e-mails when the door to his office bursts open and Mikel waltzes in with his perfectly fixed hair and his incredibly dark eyebrows, a smile the size of the world on his Snow White face. 

“You beautiful thing!” he exclaims, shutting the door with his foot. He puts down two large cups of coffee and a little paper bag in front of Xabi. “You look stunning, Xabier. I can hardly tell you were in England.” 

“Sucking up to me won’t make me forgive that you’re…” he checks his watch. “ … 30 minutes late.” 

“Gonna fire me, are you?” Miki throws the bag at him. “There’s muffin and it’s too early for you to be so bitchy. Eat some sweet and give me a smile. I missed you too, by the way.” 

“I said five minutes.” 

“And I got here in five minutes,” he explains, pulling himself a chair to sit across from Xabi. “But then I ran into Iker. We were chatting.” Miki shrugs nonchalantly and picks up his cup, taking a sip from his coffee. “You can go complain to your boss, then.” 

Xabi sighs, checking the muffin. It’s chocolate. “Haven’t you given up on that yet?” 

“Never.” 

“Casillas is as straight as anyone can get, Mikel. Have you met his fiancé? Lovely girl, absolutely gorgeous. He’s not going to fuck you.” 

Mikel snorts, crossing his legs and giving Xabi a derisive grin. “We’ll see about that,” he says, in a challenging tone. Incidentally, Iker wouldn't be the first straight man Mikel manages to convert. In fact, his friend seems to have a thing for the complicated ones. The straighter, the better; it's a turn on for him. But Xabi would not bet his money on his spell working this time. His gay radar goes absolutely dead when he's around Iker, there's nothing about the man to indicate he'd be even remotely interested - and Sara is really a wonderful girl. Xabi likes her as much as he can like any person who scores below zero on the scale of people he'd want to bed. Mikel is in for a lot of disappointment. “But enough with that. Tell me about you.” 

“What about me?” 

“Liverpool, of course! How was it with Tiny Forehead?” 

Xabi frowns, but doesn’t comment on the nickname. “I’m not sure.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means I haven’t really decided yet. There were good parts and bad parts. I’m not sure which parts were more significant in the end. I haven’t had time to think about it yet.” 

“Xabs, baby!” Mikel shakes his head. “What exactly is the sole purpose of my existence in this universe, being outrageously fabulous aside?” 

“That’s something else I’m gonna need to think about,” Xabi says, fixing Mikel with a pensive look. “Officially, you’re here to be my assistant, but working apparently is the last thing on your list of priorities, so I’m not sure.” 

Mikel gives him an eye-roll. “Well, duh. For obvious reasons. Besides, you don’t pay me to be an assistant, you pay me to give you awesome advice. The assistant part I do for free, so don’t go asking too much. Now,” before Xabi has a chance to protest, he starts talking again. “Tell me what happened with Tiny and I’ll help you decide whether it was good or not.” 

Xabi regards Mikel’s expectant eyes and ponders whether he should really share the whole Liverpool experience with his friend. He’s been telling Mikel just about everything that happens in his life since he can remember. It doesn’t always prove to be a wise thing or in any ways worthwhile, but it’s something like a habit. Some people keep journals, some people write blogs, some people go to therapy; Xabi has Mikel. Anything happens, Mikel hears about it. He’s loud and expansive, but he knows how to keep a secret - at least Xabi’s secrets, anyway. If it wasn’t for the sex, Xabi would go as far as to say they’re something like brothers. 

The thing here is he knows exactly what Mikel is going to say, and he also knows that it’ll end up with him having to admit that Miki was right since the beginning, and then he’ll never hear the end of it. Xabi is quite frankly done with all things Liverpool. He doesn’t want to hear anything else about it anymore, simply because it’s over. He and Steven are over. There’s nothing else to be added to their story. Steven made that very clear.

“Xabi…” Mikel insists, cocking him an eyebrow. 

With a dejected sigh, Xabi figures he better start talking or Mikel won’t stop pestering him anyway. Just tell him and be done with Steven and Liverpool and everything else for good. 

“It’s over, Miki,” he says. “Steven and I are over. End of story.” 

“He didn’t want to see you?” 

“He did, after some initial reluctance.” 

“Then don’t just fucking skip the juicy bits, Xabier! How did it go from seeing him to being over?” 

Xabi’s eyes flicker away from Mikel for a second, to The Red Kop’s first Gold record hanging on his wall, then back to his friend. “You want to know the important part?” Xabi starts. “Here’s what matters: you were right. I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided to go after him, but it wasn’t a good idea, just like you said it wouldn’t be. We had good moments - we had sex, if that’s what you want to hear. But in the end… It just wasn’t worth it.”

Mikel makes a face. “The sex was not worth it?”

Xabi sighs. “The sex was fine, Mikel.” 

Arteta shifts a little on his seat and something about the way he’s staring at Xabi changes; he gives him a little smile, full of affection. “Honey,” Mikel starts. “I wasn’t right.” 

“Of course you were,” Xabi insists. “I just told you. And I won’t be saying it again, so just shut up and be happy about it.” 

Miki shakes his head in denial. “I’d love to, but I was not. And I knew I was not, but I told you that anyway because I was jealous of losing you to Tiny again. I thought I’d be happy to have you back, and I really am, but now that you’re actually here… I kind of wish you weren’t.” 

Xabi gives Mikel a strange glare. “You wanted to get rid of me?” 

Mikel throws his head back and lets out a long, affected laugh. “Oh, baby… Like that would ever happen. Of course not. What I mean, Xabier, is that going there was not a waste of your time, even if you had no idea what you were doing or what you were going to do once you got there. It goes beyond my comprehension, but for some reason you love that tiny forehead.” 

“So? It doesn’t make leaving my job in your hands to go after him for no obvious reason a good idea. It wasn’t. I was there and I’m telling you it wasn’t.” 

“I’ve known you my whole life and I have never seen you do anything like that. Ever. Remember when you decided to move to Liverpool? You planned it for years before you actually booked your flight. You already had a place to live, a job waiting for you and a reasonable amount of money to help you pay for your studies. What you did last week, to just wrinkle up your €300 shirts by throwing them in a suitcase and taking off to the airport without a ticket - that’s not you, Xabs.” 

“Exactly! I don’t do that kind of thing, and there’s a reason for that.” 

“Yes, and it’s because nothing is ever good enough to make you go crazy and break your methodic, anal, OCD shit. Except, apparently, for Tiny.” 

Xabi opens his mouth to reply, but shuts it back up when he realizes Mikel has a point. Arteta arches him an eyebrow and twists the corner of his lips in a lopsided grin, proud of himself for being right. How can he be right by admitting he was wrong? Miki can see through all the little cracks on his designer-suit façade. 

“What went wrong?” Miki asks. 

Well, what didn’t, he thinks. In the end, everything went wrong.

Xabi never thought that watching Stevie go, for good, could get to him quite the way it did. He spent two years armoring himself for that moment, only to find out that nothing he ever did could prepare him for heartbreak. 

And that was the other thing. No one had ever walked away from him; he was always the one doing the leaving. He was leaving too, this time, only apparently his brain, somehow, hadn’t quite processed that. Xabi came to the realization that there was a tiny side of him firmly believing that he would be staying in Liverpool. It was only a minor bit, but it was enough to cause a surge of disappointment. Enough to break his heart when he was effectively rejected. 

“I got to see what my life would be like if I had never left,” he starts, eyes distant. “The house I’d live in, the bed I’d be sleeping on… And it’s not that I regret anything, because I don’t, and I’d still do everything exactly the same way if I could go back. But… I didn’t completely hate it, the idea of being there, and that scared me a little, I guess. I’ve always wondered, but could never imagine myself sharing a house with Steven, still playing for The Red Kop… Only this time I could. I could see myself waking up next to him every day. And that’s a very dangerous thing to imagine.” 

“How did it feel?” 

“Not nearly as disturbing as it should have.” 

“And Tiny didn’t ask you to stay?” 

Xabi pauses. “I think he did. In a way. But I didn’t give him the answer he was hoping for.” 

“And what about the boyfriend?” 

“He was there,” Xabi says, disdainfully. “They were having some troubles of their own. They were gonna try to work things out or something. Steven chose him, and that was the end of it.” 

“Oh, Xabs…” Miki leans over his desk and stretches out his hand to touch Xabi’s arm and give him a little affectionate squeeze. “I’m so sorry, honey.” 

“Don’t be. I’m perfectly fine.” 

Mikel sits back on his chair and tsks. “Yeah, right… Your poker face doesn’t work with me, darling. But I’ll let you know that I’ll do everything in my power to restore you to your former glory.” 

“I have not fallen from grace yet, Mikel. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“They’re already twisted, baby!” He laughs. “I planned everything on my way here. I’m taking you out tonight.” 

“ _We_ are not going anywhere tonight. I abandoned my job in the hands of a lunatic who couldn’t even read an e-mail for an entire week, which means _I_ have to work.” 

“Oh, come on, Xabier. You’re young, you’re beautiful, and you have the world at your feet! Madrid wept while you were gone. This city is yours, baby, take it! Work it like you used to, pick up some pretty boy. Or two. Or three, even! Who cares!” 

“It’s a little too early in the day for you to be talking about orgies.” 

“There’s no such thing as a bad time for an orgy.” 

Xabi decides to ignore his comment instead of indulging him. “I don’t need to pick up anything, Mikel, what I need is to go back to work. And you are going back to it with me, because from what I’m seeing here, you took a week off as well. Consider yourself lucky I’m a generous man and you're not being laid off.” 

“Right…” Miki eye-rolls at Xabi. “Fine. Work all night if that’s what’s going to make you happy, querido. But my invitation still stands, whenever you want.” 

“Thank you,” he says, and he half-means it. “Can we start now, please? I have a meeting with Iker in two hours. I need to know what I’m supposed to be looking forward to.” He scrolls down his list of e-mails. “You wouldn’t by any chance have acted like a professional and asked him about that during your little chat this morning, would you?” 

“As if I’d ruin my solo moment with Iker talking about work!” Miki jumps to his feet and takes his own coffee. “But I’m thinking it probably has something to do with Frank.” 

“Lampard?” Xabi looks confusedly at Mikel. “Why?” 

“He’s been after you the whole week.” 

“Ok, two things. First, what for? Second, how come I didn’t know about that?” Xabi knows he’ll never really have the courage to fire Mikel, for more than just one reason, but perhaps he really should consider hiring a second assistant. One to do the actual work while Mikel… mikels about.

“First, I don’t know - before you start barking at me, of course I asked what it was about, I was just as curious as you are, but he didn’t want to get into details. Second, I forgot. Sorry.” 

“Mikel, I was in England this whole time while Lampard wanted to speak with me. Why in God’s name didn’t you fucking tell him that? I would’ve jumped on a bloody train to London.” 

“It would’ve been useless, considering he’s here.” 

“Wait - Frank is here?” Mikel nods, calmly sipping from his coffee. “Fuck, Mikel! This should be part of the VERY IMPORTANT THINGS I made clear you were supposed to report immediately!” 

“I know it is, but he said he could wait. In fact, he said he thought it was a good thing you were spending some time in Liverpool - don’t even open your mouth, Xabier, I already said I have no fucking clue. He just really wants to see you.” 

“Damn it… Go out there, call Iker -” Mikel brightens up. “Iker’s _secretary_ ,” and then fades away. “And ask her if he’s there, and if he is, ask her to have him on the line with me right now.” 

“Fine, fine… Are you gonna eat your muffin?” 

“No. I asked for vanilla. You couldn't even get _that_ right. You're screwing up quota has been filled. Go do your job.” 

“Oh. Bummer.” With a little wink, he takes the bag back and turns to leave. “By the way,” he stops by the doorway. “Know what you should think about doing, since we’re on this matter? Frank.” 

Xabi blinks. “Why would I do Frank?” 

“Why wouldn’t you? He’s hot.” 

“I’m afraid to ask, Miki, but how do you even know I could?” 

Miki smirks at him. “I am two blow-jobs positive that you can. Love to have you back, Xabs.”

x-x-x

Fernando had this catastrophic image of getting home to find all his things scattered about the front yard, discarded like garbage. His clothes, his shoes, his books, his records, his hair products, _his goat milk_ \- everything. 

He pictured himself having to pick up piece by piece as the passers-by stop to watch his humiliation with disdain, imagining all sorts of horrible things he could’ve done to the poor soul living in the house to get his ass kicked out like a dog. 

But as he climbs out of the taxi, everything looks perfectly quiet, there are no traces of his belongings outside and so he lets out a long, relieved breath, like he had been holding it for a long time.

During the whole ride, Fernando tried to come up with a good description of how he feels, in general, about his life at the moment. It seems easier to figure things out once you have them categorized. 

Everything was absolutely perfect and looking promising until it simply wasn’t anymore. It’s something like when a football player receives the ball in that perfect position, with the goal right in front of him, huge and open and ready to be broken into, and he’s two seconds away from glory, but somehow he ends up tripping over, kicking his own legs and sending the ball somewhere else entirely. You don’t know why or how; it’s like any other day, you know what you gotta do, but you just lose control of your own limbs and make a complete fool of yourself. Over and over and over.

Fernando has no idea why he ended up thinking of football, but there you go. That’s exactly how he feels. Like Arsenal at a Champions League match, or Stevie’s Liverpool when they’re about to win the league again, or that Spanish striker that used to play for Chelsea everyone talks about. He was one second away from joy, but tripped over and ended up here instead. 

Even with the apparent calmness, it takes Fernando some good ten minutes before he can turn the key in the doorknob and walk in. He hasn’t even moved out yet and he already feels like an intruder. The house is not his anymore; his presence is no longer welcome. 

Part of him just wants to get this over with; they can sit down, talk away everything that might need clarification and that will be it. But the other, most prominent part wishes Stevie isn’t there and that he doesn’t have to do any of that right now. There’s a bubbling inside his stomach he can’t quite stop that is not entirely connected to his hangover and he thinks maybe he should’ve come up with something - what to say, what to do, how to act, anything. He’s got nothing, though. Just a lame football metaphor about kicking his own legs. 

Twenty minutes in a taxi ride made him feel sicker than he already was; his skull has become a truly unpleasant place to live in. The fact he cannot imagine a situation where Stevie wouldn’t want to run him over with a car if he saw Fernando crossing the street right this moment is making everything all the harder. Things can get very messy, very fast, and Fernando doubts his brain is in appropriate shape to keep up. 

His hopes for a slightly smoother outcome are immediately thrown, however, when he spots Stevie in the kitchen, slumped over a bowl of cereal which he attacks like there’s an insect crawling inside he’s trying to crush with his spoon. Not a very good omen, he thinks, although the aggressiveness is to be expected. 

That’s it, then. Moment of truth. Nowhere else to run now.

Stevie avoids looking at him until Fernando’s too close to have his presence ignored. The man stops, lifts his chin, fixes him with the frostier glare Fernando’s ever seen on his face, and then goes back to his breakfast. 

The Spaniard exhales; he was expecting to be greeted with a snarl and an insult and quite possibly with a request to vacate the house ‘till evening (all of which can still happen), but silence is probably even worse. 

“You have every right to be pissed,” he starts. Fernando doesn’t really have a plan here, but he reckons he ought to shoot this off by letting Stevie know that he’ll be accepting the award for worst screw up of the night with no protest whatsoever. “I did a terrible thing last night.” 

Stevie doesn’t even bat him an eyelid. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, and still doesn’t get any kind of reply. “Are you not going to say anything?” he asks around an annoyed yet weary sigh, once the silence becomes too much to bear. 

When Stevie finally decides to grace him with an answer, he simply states “I have nothing to say to you.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Good for you.” 

“We need to talk, Stevie.” 

“About?” 

“Do you have to ask?” 

“Seems to me like you exhausted all subjects we had to discuss. You broke up with me, remember? You skipped the part where we had something to talk about and went straight to the end. There’s nothing else to say.” 

Fernando closes his eyes for a moment, sucks the air in very slowly… “I made a mistake, Stevie.” 

“Doesn’t change anything.” 

“Yes, it does. I don’t want to us end with a phone call, I think we deserve more than that.” 

“What’s the fucking difference, Fernando?” He finally raises his eyes to meet the Spaniard’s, and his anger is now crystal clear. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that last night. You made it pretty clear you don’t want to be with me. What good is talking going to do us?” 

“Closure! After everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, you don’t think we have anything to say to each other?” 

“I haven’t got anything to fucking say to you.” He stops, only to change his mind and continue a second later. “You know what, actually I do. _Fuck you_ , Fernando. You want me to say something, that’s what I have to say. _Fuck. You._ ” 

“Good! At least you’re being honest for once!” 

“You want to talk about being _honest_? Where the fuck were you last night? You hung up on my face and went straight to that arsehole’s bed, didn’t you?” 

“I didn’t sleep with him.” 

Stevie lets out a long, hollow laugh, drenched up in sarcasm. “Well, you’re certainly one to talk about honesty.” 

“I didn’t fucking sleep with him! I didn’t even sleep in the same room as him! I merely asked him to let me stay at his place for the night.” 

“That’s very fucking considerate of you, love. Want me to write you a thank you card?” 

“Who the fuck are you to accuse me, Stevie? You were sharing a room with Xabi at that hotel.” 

“I already said -” 

“That you didn’t fuck him? Right. You expect me to believe that, but you don’t believe me when I say I didn’t sleep with Daniel?” 

“ _I fucking broke up with him!_ ” Stevie yells, standing up from his stool like a thunder. His spoon flies from his hand and disappears somewhere under the cabinets after bouncing off a wall. “I broke up with him and I went after you! You just screamed at my stupid face how happy you were to finally admit that you had been fucking someone else and then buggered off to shag him some more!” 

“I was pissed off at you _and_ drunk! I didn’t know what I was doing half the time!” 

“You were a cunt, that’s what you were. Drinking is no bloody excuse for acting like a jerk.” 

Fernando opens his mouth to yell something back at him - doesn’t even know what, probably something bad enough to hurt - but suddenly feels his voice cracking up and every bone in his body weighing him down. He takes a deep breath instead, shuts his eyes for a couple of seconds. “I’m tired of this, Stevie,” he starts again. “The rowing all the time, the silences, the bad atmosphere… This isn’t good anymore. It’s just… poisonous.” 

“You think I like it? I hate every minute of this just as much as you do. This is my life too. But I would never use a phone call to let you know that. I thought we still owed each other something.” 

“We do. That’s why I’m here.” He pauses. “I’m not proud of what I did, but the more I think about it, the more I believe that phone calls like ours don’t just happen out of the blue. It takes a long time of hurting and being hurt for something as horrible as that to even come to someone’s head. I’ve been pissed off about many things before, but I’ve never done anything like that. I was so out of my mind, and the way I was feeling, every word you uttered, every sound you made became loaded and full of subtext and I just wanted it to stop.” Fernando hangs his head low for a moment. “I never thought we’d end up like this,” he admits. 

“I didn’t think we’d end,” Stevie says. “But you never even gave us a chance.” 

Fernando wants to laugh, but he makes an effort to keep from it. “What chance did we have? How would we ever go back to being normal again after everything?” 

“I don’t know; we could’ve found a way.” 

“How? We’ve been cheating and lying to each other for weeks and couldn’t man up enough to tell the truth until it was too late. We can’t fix this anymore.” 

“Maybe we could’ve, if you hadn’t fucked off to Daniel’s house last night.” 

“Stop acting like that was the whole problem!” Fernando snaps again, that little thread of patience he’d found suddenly fading again. “You’re talking like me going to Dan’s house was the core of everything that is wrong with us. That wasn’t a cause, Stevie, that was a _consequence_. If I had been here last night this conversation would’ve happened sooner, but the tone would still be the same. We will never trust each other again.” 

“We could’ve fucking tried, Fernando! The same way we always had!” 

“And look where that got us! I have to be around Daniel all the time. We’re on the same band, we stay at the same hotels, we live in the same -” 

“I get it, all right?!” Stevie cuts him off. “It’s a fucking feast for you.” 

Fernando stops, motions his arm towards Stevie and then lets it fall back down against his side. “See? That’s my point, exactly.” 

“That you can’t keep your pants on whenever Daniel’s in the vicinity?” 

“That there’s no way you’ll ever know whether I’m keeping my pants on or not,” Fernando says, flatly. 

“I would make an effort to believe you. But now that you’re telling me you’re a fucking whore -” 

“Fuck you, Stevie,” Fernando says, nearly spitting it out. Not in the worst case scenario did Fernando ever think he’d get to this point with Stevie - where they call each other names and mean it from the bottom of their hearts when they tell one another to go fuck themselves. Fernando feels insanely dirty; it pains him to hate Stevie, even if he knows this will go away, that this anger is only temporary. It pains him to hate someone he not so long ago loved so much. 

Stevie stops, scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling in frustration. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head lightly. “I didn’t mean that.” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“I’m as much a whore as you are.” 

“And that makes it all right, then, does it?” He pauses. “You can’t trust me if you think I’m a slut.” 

“Then don’t be one. It’s simple.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“I thought the point was not to cheat.” 

“The point is, will you ever believe me when I get home late? If I don’t pick up my phone when you try to reach me, or if I go for a late night jog? If I go out to get drunk? With the boys? With _Daniel_? Will you ever believe that I wasn’t out cheating on you? Or is absolutely everything going to start sounding like an excuse?” 

Stevie is silent for moment. “Then just make sure you’ll be picking up the phone when I call.” 

Fernando gives him a wan, broken smile. “Well… That wouldn’t do the trick for me.”

“Xabi doesn’t even live in this country. He’s probably back in Madrid by now.” 

“Yes, Madrid. My _home town_. Or have you forgotten that? What are we gonna do, never go back to Spain again? Never visit my family anymore? Put his name on a list of enemies of the Empire so that he can never return to the UK? He’s a free man, Stevie. He came here once, he can come here every week if he wants to. I don’t want to live keeping tabs on what _Xabi Alonso_ is doing with his fucking life.” 

“I never went after him! I didn’t ask him to follow me back home either!” 

“So what? He did and you welcomed him with open arms and a fucking hard on!” 

“I didn’t fucking want him here!” Stevie shouts, his hands bowled in tight fists. 

“Did you tell him that?” 

“Of course I did!” 

“Was that before or after you fucked him? Please don’t tell me it was during.” 

“You’re so fucking full of shit, Fernando!” Stevie barks. “You’re not holding the fucking moral high ground here, not when you’ve been stuffing your mouth with that fucker’s dick all this time.” 

Fernando lets out a sardonic laugh. “That’s neat coming from you, Stevie.” 

“You don’t fucking understand it. Xabi and I… It’s complicated.” 

“Fuck me. Is that all you can come up with? I was expecting something a little more creative than _complicated_. Let me simplify it for you then: you’re still in love with your ex-boyfriend. There, it wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“I’m not in love with him.” 

“How would you describe what have been going on with the two of you, then? If you’re not in love with him, then you’re an even greater asshole than I thought.” 

“Fuck, Fernando! It’s not like that! Xabi and I, we’re… We had… It’s… We have a lot of unresolved feelings between us.” 

“Yes, unresolved _love_ feelings.” 

“It’s not love!” 

“Right.” 

“Are you in love with Daniel?” Stevie snaps back, and Fernando immediately feels something twisting inside his chest. 

“I don’t know,” he says, more than a little shaky around the edges. 

“You - what?” Stevie asks, all disbelief. 

Fernando shrugs nervously. “I don’t know.” 

“Oh my God!” Stevie’s expression morphs into a grimace, like he’s either in pain or absolutely disgusted. “You’re in love with him! I can’t fucking believe you! How the fuck did you fall for him?!” 

“What part of ‘I don’t know’ do you find hard to understand?” 

“You’re in doubt! If you’re in doubt, that means there’s something.” 

“Of course there’s something.” 

Stevie seems to melt, like Fernando turned a bucket of hot, boiling water over his head and it just washed him out completely. His shoulders drop, tiredly, and sadness seems to take over him above all the other feelings he’s probably getting right now. It sends a pang of guilt shooting through Fernando’s body. 

He doesn’t know what this thing with Daniel is yet, but it’s definitely _something_. And it’s about time they start seeing things for what they really are, rather than sugarcoating the truth to keep from hurting each other. Not like they’re doing a good job at it anyway. 

Fernando is starting to feel claustrophobic now. Everything they yell at each other is horribly true and neither one of them have an actual good excuse for anything they’ve done. Stevie might have started it, but getting an affair with Daniel hardly makes him a better human being in the sum of things. It’s like they don’t even know what they’re fighting about. It’s just weeks of bottled up anger coming out at a moment when none of it matters anymore, so they just bite and bite and bite, because that’s all they know how to do. All they can do. 

They’re neither apologizing nor forgiving here. What is the point? 

Fernando just rubs his face with his hands and tries to calm the turbulence going on inside a little bit. 

“I need a break,” he says. “I’m a fucking mess right now and I feel like I could stay here yelling at you the whole day, but I don’t even know what for. I need to get away from all this, that’s not me. I need a break from you, from Daniel - from everything. Until I start thinking straight again.” 

Silence falls around them with a sense of grief like soft rain, and when Stevie speaks again, it’s with a pained hint of finality to his voice. “So that means we’re done then.” 

“We’re done,” Fernando agrees. Stevie looks at him as if seeing beyond him - in time, rather than in space, probably lost in some old memory or another. It has come to Fernando’s head too, all the good things they’ve shared, the laughter, the jokes, the understanding, the sex… The love. Mostly the love. It’s not just because it burned out fast that it wasn’t love. It was. It still is. Or it wouldn’t hurt this much. They had the chance to make something grandiose here, something huge and beautiful, but they took on a wrong turn and ruined it. Now all they’re left with is this sense of failure. 

“I’ll go pack up my things,” Fernando’s voice crackles through. Stevie doesn’t protest, or move, or does anything really. He just stays there, defeated, crushed under the weight of their fuck-ups, as Fernando turns around and walks out. 

The frosty quietness that accompanies him to the upper floor is not quiet at all. He can hear the expletive-ridden chatter of this own anger, the blood pounding in his ears. Fernando feels old and beaten.

The fact he might be in love with someone else doesn’t exactly make him feel any better about walking out of this relationship. That’s how love feels when it ends all of a sudden; it leaves you empty. 

All happiness comes with a price. This is his. 

x-x-x 

Stevie once saw a movie, doesn’t remember which, where some guy said: “If two people who one day loved each other can’t be friends, then the world must be a very sad place.” 

Well, what a pretty load of crap.

The world is a very sad place, but not because former lovers can’t be friends; but because the past cannot be remade. You can’t go back to either the good parts and live forever in them, or the bad parts and change what went wrong. Once you ruin it, it stays ruined. What comes after that doesn’t really matter. 

Fernando, who loves his things - his books, his records, his center table, his goat-milk mug - leaves with a carrier and a backpack that can’t fit half his jeans and his converse sneakers, certainly not all his hair products as well, and Stevie looks at that and thinks: _‘Jesus, that’s how much he wants to leave me.’_

He drops his keys on the table that he’ll probably be coming back for in a while - and that Stevie will spitefully deny him - and then, a little teary-eyed, looks at Stevie, watching him from the bottom of the staircase. 

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he says. 

“I think you do,” Stevie replies. 

The last words he says to someone he’s been incredibly close to before their lives take on completely different directions. It feels weird. Full of a spite that doesn’t even feel befitting or just. 

Since this whole thing started they have been passing the moral high ground one to the other like it’s a bloody keepy-uppy challenge, except every time they hand over the right to be angry by screwing up further, the lines get a little bit more blurred. It becomes harder to figure out who’s wrong and who’s wronger. Stevie took to himself the claim for righteousness now based on Fernando’s very unfortunate phone call, but he knows that doesn’t actually make sense. He’s being hurtful because he’s hurt, it’s as simple as that.

Half of him really wished they could start over on a blank page in the morning and maybe get that feeling of not having gone wrong yet; the other half was very much aware that that was only wishful thinking - and also that he had only himself to blame for that. He had several chances to fight for Fernando and he gave all of them up for a few moments of nostalgic bliss with Xabi. 

That’s what a rational, mature person would be thinking, anyway. Perhaps Stevie will even come to accept that in a month or two. But right now he’s just too fucking upset for that sort of rationalization. He sulks in silence and watches as Fernando clumsily makes his way out the front door. 

The moment he leaves, Stevie rushes up the stairs, into his office, and starts searching through his drawers for his emergency pack of cigarettes. He quit smoking years ago, when it became sort of established that he’d need his voice to make a living. But he always keeps a safe pack at hand, because you never know. He smoked like a motherfucker when Xabi left. It’s amazing he endured the entire week without a fag. 

He sits down on his chair, picking bits of the stuffing out of the arm, blowing smoke to fill the air, and he thinks of a poem he heard back when he was still in school and trying to impress. _Nothing gold can stay_ , it said. _Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf is a flower, but only so for an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, so dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay._

Stevie’s suddenly and sickengly struck by how predictable this all feels. How he should’ve seen it coming. Because nothing gold can stay. And it just seems so very familiar. It’s happened before and it'll keep on happening because that is the natural course of things: it all starts out shiny and beautiful and exciting but always, invariably, ends up dead, and taking bits of your soul with it as it withers away.

He always tried to be a good boyfriend to Fernando. He already had one major cocked up relationship on his résumé and he wasn’t about to get another when he decided that Fernando was worth the investment. Stevie tried to be understanding and caring and loving and present. He did silly things he knew would make Fernando happy, because that’s what good boyfriends do. He paid attention to Fernando in a way he’d never paid to anyone else before - not even Xabi - because he didn’t want to be surprised again with a sudden decision based on some form of unhappiness that might have been breeding right under his nose without him realizing it. 

This is what Steven Gerrard comes to realize: being a good person in most ways doesn’t count for anything if you’re a bad person in one way. 

He had been a good boyfriend, he is certain of that. Right until the moment he started cheating on Fernando, that is. That immediately cancelled out everything else. It stopped mattering if Fernando had been happy for 99% of the time that they were together, because that 1% was what made all the difference. In the end, that’s what will stay with them: they cheated, then all the love they had for each other was out the window. 

For some reason he starts thinking back on the early days of The Red Kop, when they used to play gigs their friends got them in pubs and bars, write songs that they then dismissed for all sorts of stupid reasons, wear ridiculous haircuts, add ‘I’m in a band’ to their list of pick-up lines and think that it was already paying off if they were managing to get laid. 

Stevie’s lost count of how many times he’s thought ‘Fuck this and fuck all of you, I’m done’ in the past five years. Half the times he didn’t actually mean it. It’s funny that now, when leaving The Red Kop couldn’t be further away from his plans, he might just have caused the end of it. It’s funny, except it isn’t. It’s actually very fucking depressing.

Stevie thinks he got to that point where he wouldn’t know where to go or what to do. He’s apparently not good at anything else other than being the brooding, fucked up bastard of a vocalist for The Red Kop. And he’s damn good at that. Probably the only thing he actually excels at in life. 

In one brilliant move, not only did he lose his boyfriend to someone who wants nothing more than to see him bleed, but he also ruined the one thing he’d actually managed to get right in his sodden life. Bravo.

Insist on happiness, someone told him once. Stevie wishes he knew how. 

He feels like crying. Not noisy crying, just - letting his eyes fill with water for it to then stream down his face. He doesn’t, though. It’s still too embarrassing. 

What he concludes in the end is this: the plain state of being human is dramatic enough for anyone. He doesn’t have to be a heroin addict to experience extremity. All it takes is for him to love something. Someone. 

Sitting there, half asleep and not drunk as he would’ve liked, Stevie revels in his misery, torturing himself some more by tearing memories out of his mind like matches from a box, striking them one at a time, and slowly setting himself on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear in mind that this has been written for _ages_. I actually had to change the part about a _certain_ former Chelsea player 'cause he was still at Chelsea when I first wrote it. Liverpool hadn't even messed up the league yet and I was already talking about it - so predictable, my poor club... The bit about Arsenal remains true (sorry, Arsenal fans).


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go! :) Can't believe I'm about to finish this. As always, I ask you to forgive any mistakes you might find. The story hasn't been beta'ed. Also, your feedback is always very much appreciated!

The house suddenly gets too empty without Fernando. 

The Spaniard goes back for his things a few days later (and they arrange for it to happen while Stevie’s not at home) and leaves lots of empty spots. A mug that used to be there and isn’t anymore. An ugly vase his niece made him and that Stevie absolutely loathed and tried to deliberately break at least twice but now kind of pines for, in a rather insufferable manner. The shelves in the bathroom that used to be populated by an endless variety of products for dyed hair. An entire section of the closet. All gone. He even took the goat milk, as if trying to erase all traces of the time he spent in that house. Like the sudden emptiness isn’t trace enough that something went missing. 

Break-ups are never pretty. But breaking up with someone who lives with you is a lot worse. It leaves holes that are palpable and marked; the scars opened get reflected all over the place. The pain is visible, manifest. It feels more real, somehow. And it’s definitely harder to get your mind away from it when you keep bumping into the evidences of your own misery at every turn.

Stevie, he is no talker. Spoken words are not his strong point. Usually he’s better dealing with them when the letters are all trapped between the margins of a piece of paper. He finds it easier to organize his thoughts then, to make sense out of what he feels and, therefore, of what he means to say.

Sometimes he envies that kind of people who find solace in pouring their hearts out to willing ears, as though the mere act of discussing a subject suddenly makes everything better for them. Stevie doesn’t work that way. 

Ever since he can remember, once he was old enough to understand the bitter side of things, every time he gets upset, Stevie reorganizes his record collection.

There is a considerably larger number of records on his shelves now than when he first realized that finding new ways of cataloguing them was a good therapy, as in a very efficient manner of stirring his mind away from his problems. It takes a lot longer now to finish the task than it did back when he first started doing it. But that’s actually a good thing, considering his problems are a lot bigger and all-consuming nowadays. 

He decides to start with the obvious: alphabetical order. Stevie pulls the records one by one from the racks, takes a minute remembering when exactly he purchased it and why and then separates them in piles by letter. After a while it becomes an automatic thing - take a record, mentally recall when it was bought, find the corresponding pile, on to the next record. It keeps his head focused on something specific, rather than generally feeling sorry for himself. It also makes him reflect upon much bigger, more important facts of his life.

For instance: he concludes, after listening to some really old records he hadn’t listened to in ages and thinking back on the tender years of his life, that he was always going to turn into the kind of person who falls too easily in love and therefore gets even more easily swamped by anguish after a break-up.

Stevie grew up listening to music. He loves music so much he became a musician and now his entire life revolves around music. He writes songs about love and about broken hearts and then he sings those songs and some of them are not even real but he puts his heart into every single one of them. They kind of become his, even if they’re not. How would he ever not turn into the sort of person who bursts into tiny little pieces when his love leaves him? Whether it’s the first love or the second love or even the third love, it doesn’t matter. How would something like that ever not bruise him? 

It seems only inevitable.

He’s not thinking of Fernando here. Or not only of him, anyway. He’s thinking about Xabi, who was probably the one who hurt him deeper, and about Michael, who was the first person he’s ever really loved besides his family. He’s thinking of every single person who’s ever turned him down. This is what this moment is all about: everything.

He finishes the alphabetical order and decides he’s not done yet. So he starts filing the records chronologically. And then, finally, by the order in which the records were bought. Stevie calls it the _autobiographical_ order. It’s a real challenge, but the situation is dramatic enough that it calls for a step further in his attempt to treat the illness of his soul.

It takes a while and a lot of wandering down memory lane, but in the end he can actually read a story just by looking at his records, like someone who reads a book. Doesn’t matter if he’s the only one who gets it. They tell the story of his life through whatever he was listening to at any given moment. If he wants to find a record, he needs to remember when he bought it and why he bought it or who he bought it for to know exactly where it is. It’s a work of genius, really.

Stevie spends a whole week locked in, dedicating himself entirely to his task, but when he’s done, it all feels worth it. He’s invaded by an enormous pride, which makes him confident again, a little bit merrier, if not exactly well yet. So when Pepe calls him with an invitation for his birthday party, Stevie thinks ‘Why not?’

Fernando, Pepe adds, is back in Spain. He left his boxes tucked away on the back of their drummer’s garage and flew back home to spend some time with his family and “clear up his mind”. Stevie can sympathize, although he has some mixed feelings about it. At the same time he doesn’t really want to see Fernando yet, as to not cut the great record reorganization buzz, he can’t help but wonder if Fernando will ever come back. It’s not such a ridiculous fear as it would’ve seemed like less than a month before. If Fernando decides he doesn’t want to return to Liverpool, it will actually make a lot of sense. Stevie’s feelings and Daniel’s stupid dick aside, what happens to The Red Kop?

Stevie smiles, says hi to the people he knows, shares a little banter with Pepe, has a few drinks. He’s doing ok, he thinks, which is the first step towards _Being Fine_. Stevie’s not quite there yet, but he’s got that kind of confidence. He’s hopeful, anyway, at the very least. 

And at that exact moment, when Stevie’s hopes are on a curve upwards, is when Daniel shows up and everything goes kaput. The upbeat mood, the record buzz, the self-assurance; it all comes crashing down and goes swirling down the drain the second he lays eyes on Daniel Agger.

It’s like he’s developed some kind of allergic reaction, because the mere sight of Daniel makes every single hair in his body bristle, sends his blood boiling in his veins, enough for him to feel his face burn.

The only truth that matters to Stevie is that Daniel made his boyfriend fall out of love with him. The nature of his relationship with Xabi or the fact that perhaps he and Fernando weren’t the Paul and Linda he thought they were (you don’t bend that easily if you’re Paul and Linda, after all) is all completely beside the point. Daniel fucked his boyfriend and he now has a couple of very heavy horns coming out of his head with that wanker’s name written on it. It’s enough for Stevie to be absolutely certain that he deserves a life of pain.

He’s hated Daniel many times in his life, for reasons that range from preferring blue to red to nearly dying on him. But it’s never been quite like this. Stevie feels animalistic, brutish, uncivilized. Like a cave man or a moose or something.

He means to respect the fact that this is Pepe’s fucking birthday celebration and that Carra is actually trying very hard to keep them at a safe enough distance from one another, even though the looks they exchange are so choleric everyone in the vicinity can sense the air getting charged and sinister. Stevie is not so drunk that he doesn’t respect his friends’ effort. 

But he is drunk enough - and, apparently, so is Daniel - that he completely forgets all about it when they finally get within arm’s-length from one another in the kitchen.

Stevie doesn’t even remember who started, afterwards. Maybe because of the thumps to the head. But he does know nothing ever felt as good as that brilliant millisecond when his knuckles connected with Daniel’s jaw. He never felt more alive. There are fists flying all around and they are kicking and slapping and pulling at things because neither of them really knows how to fight. They just want to hit and hurt and scream. They keep yelling at each other’s faces and groaning like animals and none of it makes any sense, but it feels so, so good.

The truth is that they must look pretty ridiculous. 

Daniel throws him against the counter and Stevie feels a sharp wave of pain invading him as he hit his ribs badly, but Dan doesn’t even care. He takes the moment of weakness to push Stevie to the floor, straddle him and punch his face repeatedly. Stevie throws his hands up and goes for whatever he can grab and what he grabs is Daniel’s face. He pushes him away with his palms blocking Dan’s eyes and nose and half of his mouth until Daniel can’t hit him anymore. Stevie takes the momentary distraction to bite Daniel’s hand and knee him between the legs. Daniel screams in pain and finally rolls off of him, whimpering. 

That’s his chance, then. Stevie takes his spot on top of the other man and, for no reason whatsoever, decides to headbutt him. Only he doesn’t really know how to headbutt, and probably shouldn’t headbutt someone who’s lying on the floor as well, so he hits something he shouldn’t and the sensation is very close to that of breaking an egg, only the egg is his head. Both he and Daniel yelp and he falls back, with a hand on his forehead.

It’s only after a long moment of rolling around, agonizing, that he realizes that all the guests have gathered around the kitchen to watch their fight. Carra and Pepe are at the front, staring at the two of them with an air of sheer annoyance as well as infinite patience about their faces.

“Fucking dickheads,” Carra mutters.

“He started,” Daniel half-speaks, half-groans, picking himself up like he’s 100 years old and just broke his hip bones.

“Shut your fucking trap,” Stevie says, going for _Imma-hit-you-again_ but actually sounding more _Jesus-help-me-I’m-dying_.

“Are you gonna go for round two or should we take you to the hospital now?” Pepe asks, helping Daniel up.

Still lying on his back and trying to recover his wind, Stevie says, “I don’t need a hospital.”

“Tell that to your nose,” Carra snorts, his face popping right above Stevie. “You know you’re bleeding, right?”

“Is he bleeding?”

“Daniel?” Carra looks away at the other end of the fight then back down at his friend. “Like a pig in a slaughterhouse.”

Stevie shuts his eyes and takes a shuddering, painful breath. “That’s fine, then.”

Every inch of his body aches and he might have a broken nose, but Stevie feels a lot better now. Not vindicated, but certainly relieved. Years and years and years of holding himself back every time he wanted to hit that motherfucker, out of his system. It’s like an elephant just got off his back. And then maybe stepped all over him and did a little dancing on his face before leaving, but that is the least important part. 

Stevie only wishes he knew why he wants so badly to start crying. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the pain.

 

x-x-x

This is how it happens: Stevie wakes up with his face in shades of yellow and red and the stitches on his swollen brow itching like hell. Spread out over the bed like a corpse, he tries to ignore the general mass of pain his body seems to have become and continues to lie down, but the grumbling in his belly eventually becomes too much and too loud and it is obvious that if he doesn’t eat something soon, it’ll all feel much worse. 

He gets up, tumbles his way down the stairs and crosses over to the fridge in search of something to fill his stomach and possibly his soul. He stares blankly inside, at a salad rotting in its bag, rests of Chinese food he ordered some good four nights before and a bottle of vodka. He drinks a good two inches, washing it down with a sour gulp of apple juice and feels as it bubbles acridly on his tongue. He winces and has this vivid sensation, almost like a hallucination, that he is entirely hollow. If someone tried to walk through him right now, they probably would succeed.

He decides he needs to buy something to eat, so he washes his face, puts on some old jeans and a scrappy t-shirt, wraps a coat around himself and the biggest fucking sunglasses he can find in the house and takes the car for a drive to the supermarket. Only he drives by the supermarket, crosses the limits of the city of Liverpool and some four hours later he’s in London.

Stevie drives around the city until his head starts spinning and his sight begins to blurry. He stops by one of the tons of five stars hotels in Mayfair, doesn’t even know which one, and checks in.

“When are you leaving, sir?” the receptionist asks.

“Don’t know,” Stevie answers, curtly.

“Do you need help with your luggage?”

“Don’t have any.”

The man gives him an odd look but questions no more. They’re probably used to taking these quaint rich people checking in at random times after a fight with the wife or some panic attack or something. Stevie’s been told rich people are prone to having panic attacks, which is honestly one of the stupidest things he’s ever heard, but later, after he’s eaten an entire steak and drank half the bottles of whiskey in the mini-bar, Stevie thinks that a panic attack is exactly what he had. 

Welcome to the rich people’s club, then.

He sleeps for the rest of the afternoon before his phone starts ringing in his pocket. Stevie winces at the vibration against his thigh and takes a few disoriented seconds to remember he’s got his mobile with him.

“Can you get out of your fucking bed?” Carra’s voice comes blasting through. “I’ve been ringing your bell for ten minutes.”

Stevie munches on his thick saliva and makes a face at the unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Yeah, well,” he starts, only half engaged on the conversation. “I’m not there, am I?”

“Where the hell are you?”

Stevie considers the answer for a spell before thinking, well, sod it. He doesn’t even care if Carra starts bellowing on the other end. “London.”

“What?!”

“Lond -”

“I heard you the first time, idiot! What in God’s holy name are you doing in London? When did you get there?”

“First answer is don’t know, second is today.”

Carra is silent for a moment. “Stevie.”

“Jamie,” Stevie says, for lack of something better. He doesn’t even have to be fully awake to pick up on the threads of tension in Carra’s stilted silence.

He stays quiet for a while longer, breathing hard against the phone. “When are you coming back home?” and Stevie notices clearly the way he stresses the last word.

Stevie sighs, shuts his eyes. “I just got here, Carra. Let me get some rest, yeah? I’ll go back when I feel like it.”

“You want to rest and you went to London?” Carra snorts. “Why didn’t you go to fucking Ibiza? Or Dubai or some shit? What the fuck are you going to do in London? Wave to the Queen?”

“Right now I just want to sleep. Maybe I’ll stop by the palace later.”

“Gerrard, you…” Carra starts, stops, sighs and then gives up. “Just don’t stay there too long, ok?” he goes for instead, and it sounds too much like a plea. Hearing Carra sounding that worn out and defeated connects to a cord inside Stevie’s chest, makes him feel sorry for his friend. Jamie doesn’t ask for anything, he is most definitely not a beggar - whatever Jamie wants, he demands. But not even he found it in him to yell at Stevie right now. That can only mean that things are a lot worse than they seem.

“Ok,” Stevie answers after a moment, although not entirely sure of what he’s saying. He’s not really thinking right now.

As soon as Carra hangs up, he just drops the phone on the floor next to the bed, shifts around to lie on his stomach, his face buried under the soft pillows, and goes back to sleep.

 

x-x-x

 

Yolanda puts a mug of steaming coffee carefully in front of Fernando, a smile on her face that is sweet and gentle but doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “There you go, darling,” she says.

Fernando cradles the mug between his hands. The heat against his palms stops the nervous fidgeting. “Thank you,” he replies, with a small nod of his head.

Yolanda takes a step back and pulls a chair for herself to sit next to him by the kitchen table. There is an odd sort of silence that Fernando tries to disguise by taking a very large gulp of his very hot coffee and ends up nearly spilling it all out when it burns his tongue.

“You’re gonna burn yourself,” Yolanda says, with the same sort of intonation she uses to talk to her children. 

Fernando gives her a wan smile, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says, ignoring the itchiness in his throat. “I didn’t mean to give you any trouble, you know. You probably have a lot to do -”

“Oh, Nando. Don’t be silly.” She shakes her head. “You’re always welcome in this house.”

Yolanda is such a nice woman, Fernando thinks. She has this way of making you feel so comfortable around her, emanating warmth and affection. It’s not at all the first impression she gives away, what with her statuesque beauty and dark eyes. But once she welcomes you into her family cradle, the sensation is one of getting a constant, permanent hug.

“Thank you,” he repeats. “But I should’ve probably called Pepe first.”

“He’ll be home any time now. He's out running some errands for me, it won’t take long.”

“Are you sure I’m not a burden? ‘Cause I can come back some other time.”

“Of course not! It’s really good to see you, actually. I was wondering how you were doing…” She trails off and gives him that half smile again. Fernando looks down at the mug, pressing his fingers tightly around it. She is sorry for him, he can tell. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the feeling, but it doesn’t exactly add up to make him feel better about anything. He’s 29 and people still treat him like he’s _el niño_. 

“I’m ok,” he says, and his own smile tastes slightly bitter. 

“Really?” 

“I’m getting there.”

“I imagine things aren’t really easy for you right now…”

“Well -”

“What with what happened at the party and everything.”

Fernando glances back at her and doesn’t really know where to hide his face. “Even you know what happened at the gala?” 

Jesus, that’s… Fucking brilliant. Stevie probably told Carra, and then Carra told Pepe, whose mouth is bigger than his bald head. Not that he doesn’t trust Yolanda, but come on. It was the lowest, most embarrassing moment of his life. Not everyone needs to hear about that roof fight and then the drunk phone call and -

“Gala?” Yolanda frowns. “No, I meant Pepe’s birthday.”

Fernando blinks at her, confused. “Pepe’s birthday?”

“Yes, last weekend.”

“What happened?”

Yolanda stops, her eyes mildly wider. “Oh, you don’t know yet?”

“Not _yet_.”

Pepe’s wife looks away for a moment, at her shoes, and when she finally opens her mouth to start talking, they hear the front door opening.

“Yolanda!” Pepe calls from the other room. “I have your dress! Now I want my payment!” There’s a very distinctive lewdness in the way the drummer calls for his wife, Fernando can almost see the smirk on his face.

Never one to lose her poise, Yolanda merely smiles apologetically at her guest. “I’m in the kitchen, honey,” she calls back.

“Ah!” Pepe replies. “And what would you - Nando!” He stops dead on his tracks when he reaches the doorway, eyes widening in shock at first and then smoothing down into a genuine smile. “Tío! I didn’t know you were here!”

“Sorry, I showed up by surprise.”

“No, no! Don’t be sorry, that’s great.” He places a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Although Yolanda could’ve given me a heads up," Pepe adds, glaring.

“Fernando’s used to you being inappropriate, honey,” she says, patting his thigh.

Fernando chuckles. “Unfortunately, that’s far from the worst I’ve witnessed.”

“Hey! That’s not true, I’m well behaved.”

“Sure you are, baby,” Yolanda says, standing up to give him a peck on the lips. “I’ll give you boys some privacy to catch up. Nando, please don’t leave without saying goodbye, yes? I’ll be upstairs checking on the kids.”

With a little wink, she turns around and storms out, probably very happy that she won't have to continue the conversation.

“My wife loves you, you know,” Pepe comments, making his way to the fridge and taking a beer out. “I’d be jealous if I didn’t know you swing the other way. Want one?” he asks, waving the beer in the air.

"No, thanks," he says, pointing to his coffee mug, and then, “I’d definitely go straight for her.”

“Hey,” Pepe scowls. “Hands off, mister.” Fernando raises his palms out on an apology and Pepe grins. “I didn’t expect to see you back here for at least a month. How long has it been, a week?”

“A week and a half, to be more precise.”

“That long?” He sips from his beer. “Feels like a lot less.”

“Yeah. What happened at your birthday party?” 

Pepe is a little taken aback by the suddenness of the question. “Who told you about my party?”

“Yolanda was about to when you showed up. She said something happened.”

Pepe sighs and takes his wife’s place by the table. “Well, if you had stayed out for a month, then you wouldn’t need to hear about it, but I suppose now you’ll find out sooner or later…”

“Pepe,” Fernando demands.

“There was a fight.”

“A fight?”

“Yes.”

“What fight?”

Pepe raises him a pointed eyebrow that says everything Fernando needs to know. He slumps back against his chair and feels his stomach drop. “Fuck,” he mutters, and Pepe gives him a sympathy grin.

“They rolled around this kitchen like two deers fighting to see who the alpha male is. It was…” The drummer shakes his head as though remembering a very appalling scene, but slowly his lips twist into a lopsided grin and he laughs softly. “Actually, it was pretty funny. You’d think that two grown men who bark as much as Stevie and Dan would know how to throw a fucking punch.”

Fernando frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That it was the stupidest fight I have ever seen. I think there are third-graders out there who can wrestle better than the two of them. It’s unbelievable how they managed to get hurt.”

“They got hurt?!”

“Oh, you know…” Pepe shrugs and swigs from his beer. “Just the usual. Stevie had to see a doctor -”

“What?!”

“But it was nothing, he just needed some stitches.”

“Stitches?!” Fernando’s voice thins audibly as he gets more and more horrified.

“Just a few. His face looks all bruised, but it’s not as ugly as it looks.”

“Oh my God…”

“Daniel walked away with a black eye and a split lip. But Stevie did hit his balls.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“I know, it’s the first rule of street fighting, nothing below the waist. But in Stevie's defense, none of them had a fucking clue of what they were doing, and if Stevie hadn’t hit him, I don’t think Daniel would’ve stopped punching him.”

“You were watching while they were beating each other up?!”

“Of course. Everyone was.”

“Pepe!”

“What? They’re grown-ups, Nando, they knew what they were doing. They weren’t even drunk. Not that drunk, anyway. Besides, it was about time they got their knickers out of a twist.”

“Jesus Christ…” Fernando hangs his head low and buries his face in his hands. Not in his worst nightmares did he ever think things would get to this point.

“Don’t get so distressed about it, Nando.”

“Don’t get so distressed?!” he echoes, nervously. “Two men beating the crap out of each other because of me and you don’t want me to be _distressed_?!”

“Well, it wasn’t _all_ you, you know. Stevie and Dan have always hated each other. If you ask me, I think they should’ve done that a long time ago.”

“You don’t think it’s my fault they got into a fight?” Fernando asks, disbelieved. 

“I think you were the last straw in a long list of bust-ups, but I definitely don’t think it was your _fault_. If anything, they’re just as much to blame for all that mess as you are.”

“Thank you, Pepe, that makes me feel a lot better.”

The drummer shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

Fernando takes a deep, weary breath and rubs his face with one hand. “Is The Red Kop over yet, then?”

Pepe looks away for a moment. “Who knows? No one’s said anything about that yet, but… I don’t know. Stevie buggered off to London, so I guess we’ll have to wait for when he comes back.”

“What is he doing in London?”

“No idea.”

“Is it like business?” Fernando pauses. “Do you think he could be negotiating with someone else?”

“I don’t think Stevie would ever do that. Liverpool is his home and he loves the band. I don’t think he would leave us for something else, especially not for some crap based in London, but, you know… Things are pretty hazy, I guess.”

“That’s fucking brilliant news.” Fernando shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to quiet down the riot going on in his head. Now he suddenly wishes he hadn’t decided to return just yet. If he couldn’t quite stay calm and relax miles away, in Madrid, with his family, thinking about all the hundred things that could be going on in Liverpool, now he won’t stop kicking about until he hears from Stevie. What the fuck were they thinking? A fight? Jesus Christ… “And I thought being home was hard.”

“How did that go?”

“Not well. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“What happened?”

“Family,” Fernando says around a sigh. “It’s not always the easiest thing, dealing with them when you have so much going on in your head.”

“I thought the point was that they’d help you deal with those things.” Pepe pauses. “Are they like - not ok with - you know… _you_?” he asks, tentatively.

“They are. Mostly. My mother gave me all the comfort food I could eat, all the hugs I needed… Said things like ‘You’re going to find a nice boy, my son, don’t worry’.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I never told them the whole story. I said Stevie and I broke up, end of. I don’t think they would’ve felt very supportive had they known about the cheating and the lying.”

“What about you sister?”

“Don’t even get me started on Maria.” Fernando shakes his head painfully. “What a fucking nightmare.”

Pepe chuckles. “Stevie’s number one fan.”

“I don’t know how she didn’t die of dehydration from all the crying. My God… She’s the reason I couldn’t stay there any longer. It was fucking breaking my heart to see my sister so devastated. And I barely have any heart left to begin with. I was supposed to be getting comforted and yet I was the one offering my shoulder for her to cry on and telling her that it was going to be ok! Nothing is going to be fucking ok!” Fernando exasperates, gesticulating ferociously.

Pepe gives him a moment to calm down before he speaks again. “So there’s no getting back together for you and Stevie then?”

Fernando stops, lips parted. “No,” he says, flatly, after a second. “There’s no getting back together for us.” He stops. “Is that a problem for you?”

“Not exactly. Relationships sometimes end. It’s your life, I can’t tell you what to do.”

“But if you could?”

“I wouldn’t tell you to be with someone if that doesn’t make you happy anymore.” Pepe pauses. “But I’m not going to pretend that doesn’t worry me. There’s still a band in the middle of all this.”

“Yeah…” Fernando agrees, desolated. The band has been occupying a space at the forefront of his every thought ever since he boarded that plane to Madrid. Not knowing what awaits The Red Kop is the worst part. It’s impossible to think about anything and not consider the band. It’s not just his or Daniel’s or Stevie’s lives. It’s Yolanda’s and Pepe’s and Carra’s and all the dozens of people who work with them every day at studios, gigs, tours… 

Fernando can’t help but feel his stomach clenching at the thought that his stupid choices and Stevie’s stupid infidelity could be the end of so much for so many people. It’s such a dumb way to end something they’ve dedicated so much time and effort to.

“When I started packing my things, before I left,” Fernando starts and stops, licking his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I had that feeling, that maybe I was doing the wrong thing. What if I regret? What if we’re just supposed to forgive and forget? I wondered… But after a whole week of trying to explain things to my family by merely dancing around the real point, I… I realized that it wasn’t about Stevie and me. Not only about us. It wasn’t about whether we could forgive each other or if there was anything worth saving there, it was just…” Fernando breaks off his speech, eyes unfocused and lost, but still not able to put into actual words what he had felt as clear as daylight in his chest.

The truth is that he and Stevie didn’t exactly fall out of love with each other, which explains why it still hurt so much to break up. But their hearts didn’t belong to one another anymore. It was as simple as that. There was no point in staying together if they would always be going back to other people, even if just in thought. 

“So what are you gonna do about Daniel?” Pepe asks, breaking into his thoughts with that knowing look on his face.

Fernando’s eyes flicker away from him for a second. “I don’t know,” he answers. “I don’t know if there’s anything to be done.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this whole thing is fucked up and I don’t know, Pepe. I don’t know anything, anymore.” 

He could say said that he doesn’t want to deal with Daniel because he’s afraid they’ll just realize that everything they’ve done has been a huge mistake. Or that he knows Stevie will never accept the two of them together. Or how he thinks that being with Daniel means the end of The Red Kop and he’d rather not think about it at all. He could say all that and much more, but he doesn’t. Speaking his mind out makes things become more real, somehow, and what Fernando wants right now, more than anything, is to let all the dust settle down and see if things get sorted on their own.

Fernando’s too skeptical to believe in miracles falling from heaven to suddenly put everything right, but at this point it seems to him that magic really is the only positive outcome he can expect.

“Could you do that?” Pepe asks. “Really?”

“Do what?” Fernando asks, eyebrows knitting together.

“Ignore Daniel for the band’s sake. Can you really stick to us and just forget all the rest?”

The idea sends a cold shiver up Fernando’s spine. “Yes,” he replies, albeit far from sounding as resolute as he’d like to think he is. “I can’t sacrifice the band.”

Pepe shakes his head at him a little and then stretches out a hand to pet Fernando gently on the head. “You know I love you, right?” The younger man quirks up his lips in a short, strained smile. “I don’t want to tell you what to do. It’s your life, I can’t tell you who you should or should not be with.”

“But you already did that. You wanted me to break it up with Daniel.”

Pepe tsks. “I didn’t take sides, Fernando. I only told you that ‘cause I thought you were fooling around with Dan. I didn’t think it was… Well. I didn’t think.” He pauses. “I’m not going to give you advice on that, frankly I’m in no position to do it. They’re both my friends and so are you. You should do whatever you feel is right.”

“…But?” Fernando prods, sensing there was more.

“But I don’t want you to think you have to be unhappy just because of us. We’re a band of four and three of us were involved, so it’s hardly your fault alone. I know you’re thinking about priorities and all that shit, but just, really. Stop for a second. Is it going to make anything better? After all that’s already happened. Besides… Why would you put the band before Daniel, anyway? What’s the point? The money? It’s not good enough.”

Fernando opens his mouth to reply but no sound comes out, so he just gives up and falls back into resigned quietness again. There is really no easy fix and that’s as much as Fernando knows. Anything else is sheer speculation. And he’s frankly not in the best frame of mind to even try to come up with anything, what with Stevie leaving for God knows how long and all that implicates. He was hoping, when he decided to come back, that he wouldn’t need to make any decisions. The last few months were proof enough that he isn’t good with that. Maybe Stevie and Carra and Pepe and even Daniel would’ve figured something out already and he’d just have to follow their lead.

But it seems to him like nothing’s been decided, and now whatever he does will positively affect what comes next. 

He needs to make up his mind. And he needs to do it now.

 

x-x-x

 

Daniel’s never seen Jamie crying before, not at the birth of his children, not when Liverpool won the Champions League. He’s basically the personification of the spirit of the tough Scouser pride. But the sound of Jamie's voice when he calls him that afternoon is probably the closest that man’s ever been from seriously weeping. Daniel wouldn’t be surprised if he is actually shedding a tear.

“We signed that contract three months ago and I can’t cancel, Daniel. There’s a fucking huge fine that is going to bankrupt us. Stevie buggered off to London and the lads over there are having me head already. You _have_ to show up, mate!”

“Can’t you ask Fernando to do it?” Dan tries, tentatively, his heart beating a little bit faster at the prospect of meeting the Spaniard. It’s been some two weeks since Daniel’s last heard anything from him, but it feels like much more.

The sound Jamie makes might be a snort, but it is so close to a whimper Daniel can’t help but sympathize with their manager’s drama. It cannot be easy to be the guy responsible for gluing back together a band with The Red Kop’s penchant for cocking things up. 

But that whimper is enough to let Daniel know that Fernando is a no-show.

He sighs and checks his own complexion in the mirror. His eye still looks dreadful. It’s now starting to descend from deep purple to green with a few shades of yellow on the outer lines. Disgusting, really. That’s not exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to see at an autograph signing session and he reckons the blokes who hired them will have a word with Carra anyway about it, but well. A bruised bassist is the best they have to offer right now.

“Yeah, all right. I’ll be there.”

Carra thanks him like he had been at gun point during the call - which might have been the case, indeed - and hangs up. When he arrives at the store down at Liverpool One there’s already a line of excited fans waiting. A cardboard totem of the band outside announces that there will be an autograph session starting in half an hour. The fans erupt in rapt applause and crying and screaming upon seeing him, but the ecstasy is likely to go down when they realize he’s the only member of The Red Kop they’ll be seeing today. 

Daniel notices, with a hint of irony, that this is the first time he’s ever been early for anything. Being the sole representative of the band has made him care, it seems. He hates those commercial commitments. Not because he has anything against interacting with fans, although he’s not particularly fond of the hysterical ones. It’s the bureaucracy of the whole thing that bores the hell out of him. Pleasing investors, signing stuff until his wrist falls off, posing for pictures until his mandible hurts from all the smiling. Fuck it. They have His Royal Dickhead, the little prince and the crazy Spaniard for that. Besides, it’s kind of part of his persona, being the anti-social one, averse to public showings and all that crap. 

But then again, he supposes that’s the price you have to pay for achieving success. He tries to remind himself every time he wakes up hating on the world for knowing he’ll be wasting a perfectly good afternoon doing commercial stuff that if no one was interested in having his signature on some photo or a DVD case or whatever, then he would likely have to wake up to wait tables or make cappuccinos, or something. Perhaps he just wouldn’t wake up at all, having already died of an overdose before the age of 28. He’s not too sure which is worse.

And anyway, it’s not like he’s got anything better to be doing this particular afternoon. He’d be spending it the same way he spent the last 15 afternoons of his life: lying in bed with a bag of Doritos in one hand, a beer on the other while suffocating in smoke. It still seems better than an autograph session, mind you. But if the band is going to end anyway, he might as well go down as the only member who cared about showing some fucking regard towards the fans one last time. He’s sure they’ll remember him fondly for that.

Daniel smiles, waves at the fans and is ushered inside by the security staff keeping the mob contained for the time being. Some local producer takes him to a room at the back - visibly a storage room that has been moderately cleaned up to accommodate a couch, a desk and a mini-bar. Carra is waiting there for him, talking to two men he’s never seen before.

They shake Daniel’s hand and introduce themselves as the store owner and a producer from their record label. As soon as they’re done thanking him for being there and showing how deeply sorry they are to hear that the others were caught elsewhere - right, _caught elsewhere_ \- they leave to set everything going outside.

“Are you ok?” Carra asks once they’re alone.

Daniel removes his sunglasses to let him see the swollen area around his left eye. “What do you think?”

“Looks like something died on your face.”

“I think so, too.” He tries to touch the area, but flinches at the pain and makes a grimace. “I was ok when it looked just black and purple, but now it’s starting to turn green. Green is so not my color.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I blink.”

Jamie takes a short breath. “I know it’s hard for you to be here, ok? I wasn’t gonna ask you if Pepe could make it. But he had this thing and -”

“It’s fine, Jamie,” Daniel cuts in, calmly, with a shrug. “Let’s just get this over with so I can go home and put some ice on this ugly thing.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll come let you know when we’re all set for you.” Jamie pats him on the shoulder on his way out and Dan moves to the mini-bar. There’s beer and Smirnoff Ice (really? Ice? What do they think he is, a teenage girl?), but as the only representative of The Red Kop here, he reckons he should stay as sober as possible, as there will be no one else to counter-balance his drunken moodiness. Instead, he takes a bottle of water and prides himself on this recently-discovered professionalism he never knew he had.

This has to be a sign that the end is near, if Daniel Agger is taking water instead of alcohol. He wonders what Finns would say if he could see him now. _You have a reputation to withhold, you know? They can’t start thinking you’re going soft. Think of the Spice Girls. What would happen if the skanky ginger suddenly started doing sports? That’s chaos, Danny._

Where the hell is Finns now? Daniel would give everything to have just five minutes with him, even if just through a phone call. Not that five minutes on the phone with Finns would ever be enough for all the things he has to say. If he had to choose, though, just what he would do with five minutes, he’d start with this: you were right. 

Finns was right about everything. About how he would’ve been fucked up if he had walked away and not gone to rehab, about how that wouldn’t have made his life any less miserable, about how he should’ve moved on a long time ago, about how Finns is really no good to him. One day was all it took for him to act like a complete douche again and almost, _almost_ , go back to doing coke. That doesn’t change the fact Dan still loves him, of course, still would go to the end of everything to help him, because acceptance doesn’t make it alright to watch someone you care for withering to death. But the bottom line is, Finns is the greatest lunatic Dan has ever met and still he was right about everything. Always. 

Mostly, though, Daniel would tell him he was right about Fernando, too.

Daniel has this new brand of emptiness in his chest ever since Fernando boarded a plane back to Madrid. It’s a strange thing; he’s used to this sensation of having a hole in his life, of missing a point. It’s been like that since he came out of rehab. It’s not the drugs, he knows, although he’s certain that it would help him take the edge off. It’s just that he stopped caring about life in general. He continued to work because that gave him a purpose, but it has never been a very fulfilling one. Dan doesn’t have ambitions of the playing-in-front-of-a-million-people or selling-two-billion-albums sort. He plays because that’s the only thing he knows how to do and because they took him back.

Then Fernando happened and suddenly everything seems to have gained different contours. That Spaniard shone a new light over everything in Daniel’s life and it’s kinda hard to unsee it. The sort of void he created when he departed is different from that of the rehab. Totally unfamiliar.

The thought of him maybe not coming back leaves Daniel anxious and fidgety and fuming, sometimes in turns, sometimes all at once. He’s been smoking more than ever, if that’s even possible, and the cigarettes are doing less for his Fernando drought than it did for the drugs back then. Which is a very disturbing thought, one that scares the hell out of him.

Not knowing how much you want something until you realize you can’t have it is a bitch, and also, apparently, the theme of his life.

And to think it all started as a joke… As a mean of getting back at Stevie in the worst and pettiest sort of way. It wasn’t a very nice way of starting something. He was actually a real jerk. Maybe he deserves to feel like shit after all. He even deserved the black eye, just as much as Stevie deserved his as well. But they’ll be damned if they’ll ever admit that to one another.

Carra returns a while later to tell him they’re waiting. Daniel takes another bottle of water, puts the sunglasses back on and walks out to a legion of - mostly - screaming girls.

One by one, they stop by the table, carrying tons of things they just bought from the store for him to sign - DVDs, CDs, blu rays, postcards, magazines, unauthorized biographies Daniel didn’t even know existed but now is curious to read. Dutifully, he signs everything, asks their names and makes it personal. He’s feeling particularly generous today, whatever the reason. He doesn’t offer pictures, but he gladly poses for the ones he’s asked to. When he shakes their hands and asks how they’re doing, it’s like life suddenly starts making sense to some of those people. When he sees it in their red-rimmed eyes how much they worship him, Daniel wants to take off his sunglasses and say _‘Love, go out there, get yourself some nice boy or girl and find something else to love, because I’m really just a fucked up former junkie and I don’t deserve any of this’_. He doesn't, though. They're belief in his inexistent goodness is probably what keeps him going - and also, perhaps more importantly, Carra would kill him if he did.

Some of them are disappointed, he can tell. The ones who are clearly not there for him mostly ask for Fernando, and he immediately warms up to them because he wishes Fernando was there too. But when it’s Stevie, he just snorts and says he had too much to drink the night before. For once he gets to make Stevie look like the asshole, and it feels awesome. He doesn’t look back to check on Carra, but he can feel the glare on the back of his neck. Still worth it.

One girl notices his eye and asks him what happened. He’s mute for a second before explaining that he had a minor car accident. When he sees the look of sheer horror on the girl’s face, probably thinking that she got close to losing her idol, Daniel regrets it. Again, it’s that thought that he doesn’t deserve the sentiment. _‘Look, I fucked Fernando, he was with Stevie, we got in a fight, but hey - he looks much worse than I do.’_ She wouldn’t have to feel bad for him at all. Maybe she wouldn’t even like him anymore once she got to find out the kind of thing he’s up to. Life would be a lot simpler if they could all just be honest with everyone. Themselves included.

But they already have enough hearts damaged between himself, Stevie and Fernando, don’t they? They don’t need to drag anyone else into it.

After almost an hour of event, Daniel hears a commotion outside the store. People start screaming and for a moment he thinks maybe they’re panicking. He turns back to Carra, who shrugs. 

“Are they closing the store or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sir,” a member of the security staff says, approaching Carra. “We’re gonna need another desk and chair here. Can you see with the producers?”

Carra frowns. “Why?”

“Mr. Torres has just arrived.”

_Mr. Torres has just arrived._

Daniel is paralyzed for a second. The whole scene seems to go in slow-motion: security opening up space between the fans, ushering Fernando in while he smiles and waves to them, girls jumping up and down, pulling on their hairs and stretching out their hands to try and touch him. Fernando turns to them - to _him_ \- and the grin on his face changes. It softens into a more private one and suddenly the slow-motion is over and Daniel is caught dizzy as the world spins around him too fast.

“Hey,” Fernando greets him, but his eyes move away when Dan fails to produce any sound, shell-shocked.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Carra asks, jumping from his place at the back. His voice is just as stern as ever, but his features say he’s almost in tears again.

“I’m sorry, I forgot we had this.”

“I didn’t even know you were here! I would’ve called you if I did.”

“Yeah, I’ve been back for a few of days, but you know… Too much to do.” He shrugs and Carra just nods. Of course he has a lot to do. He needs to sort out practically his entire life. “But I spoke to Pepe and he reminded me, so I’m here. Whatever you need.”

“Fuck me, this is brilliant, Fernando!” Carra pats him on the back, his equivalent of a very tight hug. Two staff guys produce a second desk and a chair and put it right beside Daniel’s. Fernando sits down on his spot, taking a moment too long to settle and find a good enough position. He tries meeting Dan’s eyes again, offers him a quick smile, but drops his gaze once more.

Daniel can’t even muster to grin.

His heart is drumming away inside his chest and he just realized that, fuck - he wasn’t ready for Fernando to be back already. He didn’t prepare for this. What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

Carra tells security to start letting the fans walk again and they’re all so much happier now that Fernando is here that it would be hurtful if Daniel wasn’t so fucking out of his mind.

His hands are shaking and his signature is coming out all wrong. He doesn’t even say hi to anyone anymore, just takes their things, scribbles whatever down and gives it back. He can’t hear anything but the sound of his own heart and Fernando’s voice, all soft and sweet to the fans next to him.

“We love you, Fernando! We love you so much!” they keep saying. Daniel wants to stand up, grab them by their lapels and yell on their faces. _’Do you even fucking know what that means?! Do you have any clue how complicated that is?! Don’t just say you fucking love him!’_

“Fuck, I need a moment,” he announces, pushing away from the desk and storming back to the back room before anyone has a chance to stop him. With adrenalin clawing at his senses, Daniel locks himself inside and fumbles in his pockets for his cigarettes. 

Jesus Christ, he’s gonna need at least ten to sort himself out.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to everyone still reading this story after all these chapters. :) You guys rock! Please bear in mind that this was originally written a long time ago, so if you see anything that seems slightly out-dated, it's because I decided not to update it (it's mostly football references, tho).
> 
> As always, English is not my first language, so I kindly ask you to forgive all the mistakes. Your feedback, as always, really means a lot to me. So if you have thoughts, let me know. ;)

Later, Fernando would wonder just what the fuck he was thinking, but when Pepe called to tell him about how he thought he had just made Carra cry on the phone, it was obvious he couldn’t just sit back and not do something. He couldn’t help but think it was his fault, more than anyone else’s. 

Stevie boasted a perfect record on professional commitments, and yet decided to bugger off to London. He would’ve been there, of course, but then he left as well and no one bar Pepe even knew he was back in town. And now Pepe’s daughter was sick and Carra was about to start crying and Jesus Christ. You have to feel for a man whose life spins around keeping The Red Kop together. It’s not an easy job, not at all.

Regardless of being completely not ready to face the world as the newest Yoko Ono in Liverpool, Fernando decided to go to the event at the store and at least show some support for his colleagues. He owed them - well, Carra anyway - that much.

He didn’t stop to think about the fact he’d come face to face with Daniel again for the first time since the implosion of The Red Kop. He didn’t think about the fact he still didn’t have anything substantial to give him, or that he couldn’t even explain why he’d simply jumped on a plane and bailed on everyone with no further explanation.

He didn’t stop to think about any of this because he took very meticulous care not to. Since he couldn’t get his mind wrapped around the really important things, like Daniel and handling Stevie and the future of the band, he decided to focus on what he could actually do. Fernando went into brain-dead mode and started looking for a new place. Visiting apartments and trying to envision his new life, as is turned out, is actually a rather fantastic way of keeping one’s mind busy. But he also made sure to stop short of coming to the burning question: what happens if the band’s over and he’s got no more business to do in Liverpool, at which point he’d be invariably led to the follow-up question: how does Daniel fit in all of this?

No, thank you. Fernando most definitely didn’t want to live every single minute relating absolutely everything in his life to the band and its bassist. He spent the two weeks during which he vanished from the British map pretending that he could have a life that would be only his, outside of everything else, independent and completely separate from the band and Daniel and Stevie and all of that. It’s not very practical, because reality is not that detached or that kind. But it is a manner of keeping positive thinking on the forefront of his mind during very dark hours, so who cares about objectiveness.

Abstractly, he is happy to see Daniel and Jamie. He missed them, although one of the two a little more than other. Fernando loves his job, he loves being close to the fans, feeling their love, so he’s glad to be back. 

Concretely, however, he’s fucking terrified. Terrified of Jamie’s disappointment, of Daniel’s sheer presence, of getting the exact idea of just how big will be the gap left in his life by this _adventure_ in Liverpool if everything comes crashing down tomorrow or the day after that. 

There’s a swell of anticipation right before he walks into the store, as he braces himself for the inevitable encounter, but the desperately loud screams from the fans as they spot him help diverting his attention and he avoids looking directly at Daniel until he absolutely cannot help it anymore.

Fernando takes a seat next to Daniel and tries his best to keep his professional mask on. His hands are barely visibly shaky and his voice is only a little more strained than usual. He’s not a very loud person per nature anyway, so he doubts anyone can even notice the difference. He finds it impossible to hold Daniel’s gaze for more than two straight seconds, though, but Fernando can’t resist a sidelong glance at him.

When the Dane pushes the chair away and storms off, Fernando wants to hold his hand and ask him to please don’t do this, please… Because he’s trying so hard here to prove to himself that they can still be all part of the same band, that everything can go back to normal, exactly as it was before! His little lie falls through the minute Daniel bends under the strain.

“Fuck’s sake…” Carra mutters behind him.

“Hey,” he says, turning to their manager. “Do you think we could have a break?” Carra looks skeptical, so Fernando ploughs on. “Not too long. I’ll just go in there and check up on him. Please?”

The Scouser looks around the crowded store, to the confused fans staring at the empty spot where Daniel used to be with big, questioning eyes, and scratches the back of his head. “Fine. Take 15. But make sure you bring him back, yeah?”

Fernando nods, finishes signing a girl’s album and leaves. He hears the murmuring growing heatedly behind, but doesn’t waver and simply continues to the back room.

Daniel is there, standing in a corner, leaning against the wall with a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette hanging on the other. He’s taken off his sunglasses and Fernando can see the real extent of the damage caused by Stevie. He has to say, it doesn’t look half as bad as he imagined, but then his mind had taken on a very gory trip as he tried to picture how that fight Pepe narrated for him had really gone. Compared to having an eye popping out, the ugly purple-greenish mark covering one side of his face is ok. But it’s still a reminder of everything that is making Fernando distressed and antsy right now.

The Spaniard shuts the door delicately and forces himself to stare back at the Dane levelly, albeit at a certain distance. He hopes Daniel can’t hear the crazy drumming going on in his chest. And why are his palms so sweaty anyway? This isn’t supposed to make him nervous. Sad, yes; confused, certainly; but _nervous_ denotes a state of amateurish anxiety akin to that of a teenage boy. He feels vulnerable and he hates it. He needs to be reasonable now, act like an adult for once. It’s about time someone starts to.

After a long spell of suspended silence, Fernando is the first to speak. “Are you ok?” he tries.

Daniel shows him the cigarette before bringing it up to his mouth for a drag. “Yeah,” he says, although sounding not at all convincing. “I just needed a smoke. I’ll be out in a moment.”

“It’s ok, you can take your time. Well, not too much time. I got us a break, but it’s only fifteen minutes.”

Daniel nods. “Thanks.”

They’re quiet again for a while. “What do you think they would say if they knew the real story of how you got that?” he asks, a little lopsided grin daring to break onto his lips.

Daniel smiles back. “I’m pretty sure some of them would get a boner.”

Fernando laughs shortly, timidly, because he’s not quite there yet. His own smile tastes slightly bitter. “It looks painful.”

Daniel snorts. “You should see him.”

“Ah… I’ve been told you messed up his face pretty bad.” Fernando means to say it in a lighthearted sort of manner, but his voice comes out shaking a little. He can’t help but imagine that Stevie is now looks like a Picasso painting. It makes him shudder, not at all a happy thought.

“Yeah, well. He asked for it,” Daniel states, simply, before swigging from the bottle. “So I take it you haven’t given up yet?”

“The band? No.” Fernando shakes his head vehemently. “I haven’t.”

“That’s good. For a moment there I wasn’t sure if you ever going to come back.”

Fernando offers him a weak smile and averts his eyes for a second, a little ashamed to admit that neither was he. “Can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind…” He scratches the back of his head, awkwardly. “I even had an invitation from a friend to join a different band.”

Daniel’s eyebrows arch up in mild but rather hesitant curiosity. “Oh yeah?”

Fernando nods. “I met Juan a few years ago during a festival in Valencia, we’ve been in touch ever since. He’s now playing for a group based in London and they just lost their guitarist. The Roman Boys, they’re called.”

Dan snorts derisively. “That’s a fucking stupid name.” Fernando chuckles, because he told Juan the exact same thing when he heard the news his friend had agreed a deal in England. Mata just shrugged and said the money was good and the guys looked decent, so that was enough. “What happened to him?” Dan continues.

“Juan?”

“The guitarist.”

“Oh. Drogba. He went to Tibet, I think. Wanted to become a monk or something.”

Dan shakes his head reprovingly. “Stereotype.”

“I don’t really get how you go from being in a rock band to wanting to become a monk, but…” He shrugs.

“Did you turn down the offer, then?”

“Yeah…” Fernando says around a sigh. “Juan was a little disappointed, but I couldn’t go.”

Something changes in the Dane’s eyes, although Fernando is unable to tell exactly what. He seems more confident all of a sudden, less the dejected mess he looked like when Fernando walked in and more like the Daniel he knows. 

“Why not?”

The Spaniard bites on his lower lip, pensive. “Because London is not Liverpool,” he starts. “And _The Roman Boys_ are not The Red Kop. And nothing would be the same, I guess. I’ve been around, you know. Having a band to play with isn’t everything. I don’t think being there would have the same kind of… sparkle. I’m not the same kid I was when I first got to England and I like who I’ve become here. Going there would mean starting over and then who knows where I’d end up… In the end, I just couldn’t do it. Although I have to admit that I considered the idea.” He takes a short break. “And then, of course, I heard Stevie had buggered off to London, so I thought that was a sign that I should stay away from that city after all.”

“Hiding from him?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know,” Fernando says, nervously. “I think I ought to have something to say to him the next time we meet, but I don’t really know what, so that’s complicated.”

“Well, I don’t think it will be too long before Stevie is back flaunting all his grace across the streets of Liverpool.”

“You think he’s coming back?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what he got like after…” Fernando motions vaguely in Daniel’s direction, meaning the new shade of color on his face.

“Don’t be silly, Fernando. That was nothing.”

“It seems like a big deal to me.”

“Why? It was just a fist fight. I can’t even remember how many I’ve had in my life.”

“How can you be so nonchalant about it? You honestly don’t think it makes things more complicated? For _all_ of us?”

“Fuck, no. If anything, I think it makes everything easier.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Isn’t it obvious? If Stevie and I had exchanged a few punches more often rather than bottled up all the times we wanted to hit each other then maybe our relationship wouldn’t be so fucked up to begin with. We just don’t like one another, that’s life. It happens. You can’t like everyone. If you’re worried this was all because of you, rest assured that it was not. This,” Daniel points to his injured eye, “is the end result of years and years of very bad anger management.”

Fernando opens his mouth to reply, stutters a little but doesn’t come up with anything. It’s exactly what Pepe told him, but it sounds different coming from Daniel. It’s not that he wants the fight to have been about him, but he can’t help but think he was the catalyst, and that’s terribly embarrassing.

“Anyway,” Daniel says with a sigh, finishing his cigarette. “Yeah, I think he’s coming back. That fucker practically owns this town and enjoys too much being the bigger fish in this fucking pond. Liverpool is Stevie’s kingdom. Everyone licks his boots around here. He’ll be back once his stupid ego needs a massage, and it won’t take long.”

“You don’t sound like you want him to.”

“Ideally? I wish I never had to deal with him again.” He makes a pause. “You?”

_Ideally_ , Fernando thinks, _I wish I could just leave Liverpool and never have to think about whether I want Stevie to come back or not. But that’s not going to happen, because he can’t stay away and I can’t seem to go anywhere either, so…_ “I don’t want to kick him out of his own hometown. And I don’t think we have a band without him,” he says instead. 

“But you don’t know if we have one with him either,” Daniel completes his thought.

“Something like that.”

They lapse into silence again, and of course it’s no silence at all. The atmosphere around them feels charged and heavy with all the things they want to say but can’t. It’s like they’ve been hanging in that fraction of a second before someone starts talking, that little sound of a last breath being taken or of lips parting and tongues clicking. It makes Fernando burn with anxiety. There are one thousand voices screaming in that quietness, interrupted only by the enhanced sound of the liquid inside Daniel’s bottle moving as he swigs from it again

“Daniel -” “Fernando -” they both speak at the same time, and smile strangely at each other.

“You go first,” the Spaniard moves his arms in a ‘be my guest’ manner.

Daniel takes a long breath, his chest inflating slowly before he lets it all out along with his words. “I’m in love with you,” he says, sharp and fast, words tripping over one another as they come out. “Just thought you should be aware of that, before anything else happens.”

It hits Fernando like a blow to the face or an arrow to the heart or a rock to the forehead or… Or everything at once. 

It’s not a surprise, exactly, although hearing Daniel saying that and sounding so serious, so absolutely devoid of any kind of bullshit, it’s… Well, it’s intimidating. Fernando reckons that’s something the Dane hasn’t told many people in his life before, so everything else aside, it is also a responsibility. Daniel is putting his heart in his hands and saying, ‘Take it, it’s yours’, and well, fuck. Fernando doesn’t even know what to do with his own heart, how is he supposed to know how to handle someone else’s? 

So it’s not news, because he could see it coming, sort of, but it is distressing nonetheless. It's definitely a huge twist in how they've been handling things for a couple of months now, since this whole thing started. They've gone from hiding, lying about and dancing around the subject to admitting it as straightforwardly as it can get, so... It puts everything under new perspective.

Regardless of what Pepe said, Fernando doesn’t think the band can progress with him and Daniel giving in to this wayward feeling. Pepe is ¼ of a band that has the other 3/4s involved in a royal mess. He was counting, up until now, that they could shake hands and agree to move on and never openly declare what has been lying between the lines for some time now.

But apparently Daniel doesn’t share his thought. He decided to make their affair a definitive part of the equation and that makes things so much harder… Fernando gets a headache every time he even dares to try and quantify just how much.

He feels his own heart sinking deep in his chest at the sound of the confession. Not because it’s painful, though. If he’s honest with himself, the reason why it hurts so much is because he feels exactly the same way. And that’s precisely where the problem lies. 

“Daniel…” He starts, licks his lips, closes his eyes for a moment. “We can’t,” is what he says in a way that attempts to draw a line under the whole conversation before it even starts, because it is as simple as that. They can’t, period. 

“Why not?” Dan asks, in that challenging way he has of questioning everything. Like he hasn’t got a care in his life. Fernando wishes he could be more like that sometimes.

“Do you have to ask?” He opens his arms in the air. “Look at this. At us. Where is the rest of The Red Kop? Why are we in this room right now instead of outside, like we should? How are we ever gonna be in the same band like this?”

“How are we gonna be in the same band either way?”

“You know that us being together would make everything a lot more complicated.”

“Right, because we can simply erase everything that’s already happened.” He pushes away from the wall and leaves the empty beer bottle on the floor, approaching the Spaniard in slow and measured steps but with a new wave of boldness in the lines of his body. “Fernando, we can’t undo what we’ve already done. That’s always going to be hanging over our heads. Ignoring it is the same as saying you’ve cheated on Stevie for nothing.”

He frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, why did you sleep with me? Was it just to get a little revenge on him?”

“Of course not! You know it wasn’t.”

“Then what did it mean to you? What do _I_ mean to you?”

Fernando stops and swallows down hard, his heartbeat skyrocketing. “That’s not what you should be asking, Dan.”

“What should I be asking?”

“What does it means for the band?”

“With band or no band, it means that we like each other! Nothing we do to try and fix what has already passed will change that.”

Fernando hates it when his determination starts getting tested by simple logic. “Stevie is never going to accept that.”

Daniel laughs a hollow laugh. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear what you just said from the top of _all the fucks I don’t give to Stevie_.”

“Well, I give a fuck. Several fucks, as a matter of fact.”

“Why? He cheated on you first, or have you forgotten it already?”

“Don’t start bringing Xabi into this again, Daniel. It’s completely beside the point.”

“How the fuck is that _beside the point_? It is the whole bloody point! If Stevie had never been with Xabi, then maybe _we_ would’ve never happened. He doesn’t have anyone else to blame for his misery but himself. It’s not our fault.”

“I wish things were that simple.” Fernando shakes his head, slowly. “Stevie and I have hurt each other enough. I know he was in the wrong with me, but I wasn’t any better to him and despite all that shit, I still like him.”

“And it’s fucking beyond me why, but whatever, Fernando. I’m not asking you to dance naked over his dead body or anything. I’m just saying that it doesn’t make any sense to have gone through all that for nothing. For a bunch of sad bastards to continue to play together and be all fucking miserable together. That’s a stupid idea.”

“Your alternative would leave only one sad bastard and that’s not fair either.”

“We can’t fucking make everyone happy. Stop trying to be fucking Madre Teresa and think about yourself for one second. What do you want?”

“Daniel -”

“No. Just look into my eyes right now and tell me what do _you_ want? Not Stevie, not me, not anyone else. Just you.”

Fuck.

Fernando tries really hard to pry his eyes away from Daniel’s compelling green ones, but it’s impossible. It burns with a fiery sort of determination that makes it impossible to avoid him. The Spaniard exhales, tired, and opens his mouth to answer.

And then Carra walks in.

Fernando notices that he and Daniel are standing within arm’s length of each other, and that they must have heard them shouting nonsense at one another from the outside, and suddenly he feels his cheeks burning.

Jamie looks from one to the other, dead serious, before announcing, “Five minutes,” and walking back out.

Fernando scrubs his face with both his hands and takes a step back. “Do you see?”

“See what?”

“His face,” he points angrily at the door. “That’s the kind of look we’ll be getting from everyone.”

“Screw everyone, Fernando! What the fuck did I just say?!”

He bites on his lower lip and shakes his head. “We worked so hard for this, Dan. But we weren’t the only ones. It won’t be good for business if The Red Kop continues on this path to self-destruction. How can you not see it?”

“The only thing I see is that you’re scared.”

“Damn right I am! And you should be too!”

“Scared of what?”

“Of losing everything!” he says, an exasperated cry.

Daniel shrugs. “What is everything? The band has made me three things, Fernando: rich, famous and miserable. I love playing, I love music, don’t get me wrong. It’s not _being in the band_ that I find despairing. But there was a price. I’m never happy. Or I _was_ never happy, until… You. You made me feel joy again, made me feel alive again, made me want something like I haven’t wanted anything in years. And do you know what you’re supposed to do when you find someone like that, after wandering around without a purpose for so long? You don’t let that person out of your sight, Fernando. You chase after them and you make sure they stick around. The only thing I’m scared of right now is of losing you.” He takes the last two steps towards Fernando and cups his face with his palms, making sure the Spaniard cannot look away.

Fernando feels his breath catching at the soft, warm sensation of Daniel’s fingers against his skin. God, he missed that… He missed it so much. He dreamt of this touch every night in Madrid, waking up swamped by guilt for missing something he should’ve never had in the first place.

“Now look at me,” Daniel continues, his voice velvety and melodic. “Look at me and tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

“We… we don’t even know what we’re doing here.”

“Maybe. But don’t you at least want to find out?”

“I… I…” He stutters. “I can’t choose you over the band.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to choose me _and_ the band.” He places a kiss on the tip of Fernando’s nose. “But please stop acting like we’re a mistake.” Then on his forehead. “I know mistakes. I’ve been on the worst end of them many, many times…” On his chin. “Mistakes are nothing like this.”

Daniel looks deep into Fernando’s eyes again and places a soft, tentative kiss on his lips, asking for permission. The Spaniard doesn’t push him away, though, so he tries again, this time deeper. Fernando knows he ought to be thinking with his head right now, rather than with his heart, but holy shit… 

When he parts his lips to allow Daniel’s tongue into his mouth, it feels like a big sod it to the world. Everything he spent the last couple of weeks repeating to himself like a mantra just goes flying out the window. His body seems to melt between Daniel’s arms as the other man tights them firmly around his body and Fernando knows, right that second, that this is it.

He doesn’t want to give up on the band, and it is going to be painful like fuck if Stevie returns from London to say he cannot fathom the idea of working with the two of them together. But there is simply no going on without Daniel right now. He can’t be in a band with him and pretend there’s nothing happening, pretend that it doesn’t tear him apart to be away from him, because it does. It so does. 

Pepe was right: he will regret it in the future, choosing the band over… well, love. Not all the songs and all the money and all the fame in the planet will ever make it up to never having Dan again. Never breathing him in anymore, never feeling his hands sliding up and down his back, his lips soft against his.

Maybe it won’t work out. Maybe they’ll break up in a week. Maybe they’ll come to the conclusion that it was all just a mistake after all. But that’s something they’re gonna have to find out by themselves. And together.

“God…” He mutters against Dan’s mouth when they break apart for air. “What the hell have you done to me?”

Daniel smirks affectionately. “I have won you over.”

 

x-x-x

 

London is cold, wet and dark all day, which Stevie thinks is perfect.

Not that the liverpudlian weather is any better, but this is his self-given holiday. Other people would pick somewhere warm, with nice white sand and a scorching bright sun, but places like that, where it’s cool to have stupid drinks like _piña coladas_ while being surrounded by rich, attractive people who seem to come straight out of fashion catalogues, demand a certain frame of mind that is not his particular case at the moment. 

Yes, it was somewhat of an accident that he ended up in London, he wasn’t actually thinking about taking some time off away from home, but Stevie took that wrong turn as a sign and decided to embrace it. He really can use being on his own to think properly, with any irrelevant interruptions. And he is convinced that there is no city in the world that understands depression quite like London does. Even its football clubs are depressing, in Stevie’s humble opinion. The city is just as off-color as the rest of his life feels right now.

After very hazy first days, when nothing made much sense, once he manages to put his head more or less in a functional wavelength, Stevie comes to the realization that his brain is an inexhaustible source of misery. It’s never ending. Where other people have skills like playing five kinds of instruments, or speaking seven languages, or dancing, he has an entire research and development department fully dedicated to discovering new ways of suffering and mourning and feeling sorry for himself about the same old things functioning 24/7 in his head. You have to learn how to appreciate that sort of talent, because that’s exactly what it is: a talent, even if absolutely nothing good comes out of it.

He goes on a week like this - hiding under the covers, watching football on TV, eating and drinking and smoking. Smoking more than anything else. Stevie’s cigarette consumption in a week is so great he’s positive of two things: first, he’s contributing towards making some rich tobacco industry bastard a lot richer, and second, his lungs will be completely dead by the time he goes back home. He’s not sure he is entirely sorry about the latter.

A week into his pity-party holiday, Stevie looks at himself in the mirror and gets a bit of a shock. Sadness has gauged some extra lines around his mouth and eyes and he can even see some grey around his Sunday morning stubble that’s actually grown into what can already be considered a proper beard and, when put together with his still faintly bruised features, bloodshot eyes and tired complexion, makes him look like the end result of a very bad makeover. One that’s turned him into a homeless person, apparently.

That’s when Stevie decides he wants more than to simply sear away the pain with a smoke, because that's clearly not making him either blunt or nonchalant enough. He wants to get high. Obviously, though, he’s not going to do it the same way idiots like Daniel do; he has more class than that. Wine and tranquilizers are his weapons of choice.

He gets pretty high, albeit not as insanely as he had aimed for, and decides to go out. If he doesn’t get out of that room now, while he’s under the influence, then there aren’t really many things that will do the trick.

Stevie heads down to a pub that is as big as it is awful. There’s no particular reason why he chooses this one, only maybe that it looks like the kind of place where one would go to drown in sorrow as opposed to the loud, crowded and cheerful environment where coworkers meet for a pint and some banter after a long day at the office. There’s a banner on the door that says they have live music tonight. Live pub music is, invariably, depressing, which is everything Stevie could wish for right now. And anyway, it’s not some underground punk group or anything, which is better than most.

The goal here is to get to the end of the night feeling like he can walk out and off himself, although he knows he’d never actually do it. 

The desire to be in a suicidal mode might seem like an irrational thing at first glance, but it is actually the opposite. Or maybe he is so over the edge already he’s starting to work sense out of insanities. It is entirely possible that he has started to lose it, but Stevie wants to hit the bottom because that’s when he’ll know there’s nowhere else to go but up. In the absence of any sort of reference in his life at the present moment, making a good use of the bottom of the well seems to him like his best option.

There are actually lots of people at the pub, certainly more than he expected to find, but the place is big enough that he can stand at the back and watch the show and not risk being recognized. Not that he thinks he will, anyway. He looks so disheveled and low-profile he hardly thinks his mother would even look twice in his direction if she passed him by.

Most of the clientele looks either on the verge of unconsciousness or exactly like he does: too alone and wallowing in self-pity to pay attention to anything else. He’s amongst equals here. This sullen atmosphere is more welcoming than anywhere else he’s been to in the last couple of weeks, and that unfortunately includes his own house. A toast to that.

The act tonight is some band called L’Arsenal, a name that inspires absolutely nothing good. As the proper Englishman that he is, Stevie nurtures a natural aversion towards anything even remotely French. And he can’t remember when was the last time he heard of a band with a French name that was good, anyway. Maybe never. He’s wondering why would anyone in Great Britain choose a bloody French name to a band when the guys get up on stage and he realizes they actually _are_ French, except they sing in English, and it makes slightly more sense, but not really.

The fact the name is not just for show appeases his initial antipathy. Their English is pretty good, but every now and then he can pick up on the vocalist’s accent, and perhaps it’s just that he’s high, but he kind of finds it nice. As in, it doesn’t make him want to shoot himself. It’s actually enjoyable to the ears, and it suits the guy perfectly. There’s something about the raspy sound of the lad’s voice that Stevie finds incredibly charming. 

Stevie’s very impressed to conclude that he doesn’t completely hate L’Arsenal. He never expected to stay for more than one and a half songs, but the minute they start playing, Stevie realizes he’ll be sticking around for the whole gig. And he reckons that probably has a lot to do with their first music of choice.

They start with a song Stevie absolutely loathes. For some reason, or perhaps the improbable combination of several - his heartache, the fact he’s just been dumped, being high, the guy’s accent, the bad beer, the smoke gathering above his head - Stevie wants to cry rather than vomit three minutes into Nazareth’s ‘Love Hurts’. It’s the universe’s way of making him realize just exactly how fucked up he is.

As a consequence, Stevie suddenly finds himself in two apparently very contradictory states: a, he suddenly misses Xabi, and b, he falls in love with L’Arsenal’s lead singer.

Ok, it’s not _love_ , love. It’s an _idea_. The sentimental crap of that song, at the same time that it makes Stevie incredibly nostalgic, it also takes him forward, and it makes him think about how good it would be to move on, or to meet someone who could turn things around for him - someone who would work, for good, who would neither ditch him for another job nor for another band member (he can’t decide which is worse, but his morale is considerably downgraded by both). 

And, well, if you’re going to develop an instant depression-clattered crush on someone, Olivier - that’s his name, Olivier Giroud, how so very French - is hardly the worst that can happen.

Aside from the part where he’s not without talent, he’s also quite handsome. Stevie darts forward, gets closer to the stage and takes a better look at him to make sure Nazareth or the tranquilizers aren’t affecting his judgment. Olivier has a nice smile and a nice body and piercing blue eyes and a slightly too long nose that seems to go well with his very Frenchy looking face, thus making him very easy on the eye indeed. There are a few women there sighing as he sings, so Stevie’s not the only one, although the realization doesn’t exactly appease his embarrassment. 

The conclusion is: Olivier is an attractive man. Not interesting like Xabi or exciting like Fernando, but Stevie gathers he can’t spend the rest of his life comparing everyone to his ex-boyfriends. Olivier is exactly what anyone would be looking for in a one-night stand: he’s extremely fuckable.

Yes. Stevie wants to sleep with Olivier. That’s progress, right? If Olivier were to buy him a drink and then go back to his hotel with him, Stevie would consider himself satisfied. Considering he didn’t even want to see the daylight when he arrived in London, feeling sexually attracted to someone who doesn’t hold any kind of resemblance to either of the sources of his current state of spiritual pain has to be a step forward.

He’s not Spanish, anyway. That constitutes something entirely new for Steven Gerrard in nearly five years.

As it turns out, Olivier does buy him a drink. Two, actually. He recognizes him as well, but doesn’t make a fuss about it, for which Stevie is very grateful. They talk for a while and it is strange how smoothly their conversation flows. Such a difference from the strained silences that seemed to dominate most of his past few weeks. Olivier says remarkably interesting things - about music, about England, about politics even, although Stevie’s not sure how they end up on that subject - and he really seems to know what he’s on about. Stevie’s sure that if he had been just a tiny bit more sober, he might even have learned something.

At some point, Olivier says he’s sexy and soulful, which Stevie thinks means he doesn’t talk a lot and always looks vaguely annoyed. Stevie reciprocates the compliments by saying Olivier’s talented - which is true - and that he looks like he knows how to give a mean blowjob. Stevie’s got absolutely no idea where that comes from, although it is an idea that occurred to him at some point while he watched Olivier sing. It is also something highly inappropriate to be said to someone you just met, but Olivier laughs out loud and looks rather amused, so Stevie doesn’t have to feel awkward about it. Not too much, anyway.

After that sort of comment, you’d think they’d definitely end up sleeping together. You’d think Stevie would say _‘Hey, why don’t we continue this conversation back at my hotel?’_ , which is exactly what he had in mind. 

But he doesn’t say it, and they don’t fuck.

Olivier looks slightly disappointed when Stevie announces he needs to go but doesn’t turn it into an open invitation. Maybe if the Frenchman had said something like _‘Can I come with?’_ Stevie wouldn’t have said no. But he doesn’t, so they leave it at that. 

Stevie goes back to the hotel, all by himself, feeling 100 pounds lighter and absolutely accomplished. The mere fact he can imagine himself having a wank in Olivier’s honor rather than Xabi’s or Fernando’s feels like a significant victory. In the end, he doesn’t want to have a quick, meaningless fuck. Not tonight, anyway. But he likes to think that he could, and that he’d enjoy it and not think about anyone or anything else other than the person he’s fucking. He can be proud of the fact he made relevant progress tonight towards going back to being a whole person again.

Until he arrives back at the hotel and finds Xabi waiting for him at the reception, that is. And then it all comes tumbling down once more, like someone just blew a wind near his card castle.

Xabi smiles and stands up when he walks in. Stevie halts abruptly, freezing in his own spot. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and Xabi’s still there. He’s taken a lot of shit tonight, so it’s entirely possible that he’s imagining things. 

What, in God’s name, would Xabi be doing in London, at three in the morning?

Stevie turns to the security guy and waves at him to step closer.

“Sir?”

“Do you see that man over there?” he asks, pointing towards Xabi.

The guy looks from Stevie to where he’s pointing, then back again. “Yes, sir.”

“The one with the beard? Is he really there?”

He gazes confusedly at Stevie, not sure whether to be taking the question seriously. “Yes,” the guard nods, slowly. “He’s wearing a grey suit,” he adds, just to make sure.

“Ok,” Stevie replies. “Thank you.”

The man bows his head a little and goes back to his spot. Tentatively, Stevie approaches his visitor. Xabi has an amused, almost ironic air about him that touches on some raw point with the Scouser. “Convinced I’m not a hallucination?” he asks.

“Had to make sure I’m not crazy.” He pauses. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“… Why?”

“I have a business proposition for you.”

Stevie is sure he looks absolutely baffled, because it’s exactly how he feels. Xabi’s presence has him suddenly feeling sober again, but he’s as lost as someone on a heavy dose of crack would be. None of this is making sense.

“A business proposition?” he asks. “At three in the morning?”

“In my defense, it wasn’t three in the morning when I got here.”

“And you decided to wait?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you heard about this new technology they invented called telephone?”

“I wanted to speak to you in person.”

“What if I hadn’t come back tonight?”

Xabi just shrugs. “This is a hotel, isn’t it? I’m sure they have a few rooms available.”

“You do realize this doesn’t make any sense, right?”

“It will when I explain it to you.” 

Xabi is a complete, fucking alien, Stevie decides. He talks like there’s nothing even minimally strange about him materializing in England, at his hotel, in the middle of the night. It’s like they just ran into each other at a supermarket, completely by accident. Or like they’re old school mates rather than people who ended an affair under very bad terms mere two weeks before.

Stevie starts and stops, tries and fails to come up with something objective, so he just gives up. “This is too weird.”

Xabi grins again, with that air that speaks of infinite patience. “I’ll understand if you need to rest.”

“You’ve been waiting for me all this time, but you’ll understand if I don’t want to see you right now?”

“Sure.”

“You kind of gave me the impression that what you have to say is too important to wait.”

“It’s important, but it can wait. I’m the one who can’t. I can manage, though, if I have to, I’d just rather not.”

Stevie shakes his head. “You’re a weird, weird person,” he says, and starts making his way to the elevator. When Xabi doesn’t follow, he turns back to the other man. “Are you not coming?”

“Are you inviting me up to your room?”

“Would you prefer we have this conversation here?”

“No,” he says. “Just making sure.”

Stevie narrows his eyes at the Spaniard slightly. “Since when do you wait for a proper invitation to follow me around?”

Xabi smiles, calmly. “I think I’ve learned my lesson,” he says. “Besides, you didn’t really look like you wanted to see me again the last time we met. I’m trying not to push it too far.”

“Popping up by surprise is pushing it too far, Xabi,” Stevie explains.

The grin on the Spaniard’s face becomes strained and a little wan, but he nods in agreement. “I suppose.”

They take the elevator together, in silence, keeping a considerable distance between each other. Stevie’s torn between an incontrollable will to give Xabi a hug and the desire to punch his face. He wants to admit he hasn’t thought of anything but him since they last saw each other, with the occasional Fernando-related theme popping in here and there, and also to curse Xabi for that same reason. But it’s hard to decide which streak is stronger: the part where he actually missed Xabi or the part where he blames him for everything that is wrong with his life, albeit knowing that the latter is hardly entirely his fault. Being fair is not part of the game here.

Tonight was supposed to be about new beginnings. It was his first night out since the implosion of his personal life, caused by Xabi’s reckless interference. Stevie was proud of himself today, his night was about to end on a fantastically good note. But all those good feelings turned into dust the minute he laid eyes on that Spaniard.

It’s like Madrid all over again.

He opens the door to his room and storms inside. Stevie sits down on the bed, stands up, then sits back down and sighs. Xabi, as composed as ever, calmly closes the door and waits, giving him time to get comfortable - like that’s even possible.

“That’s a very gloomy room,” he comments, looking around. Gloomy is not exactly the word, Stevie thinks. More like dumpy. He turned a five stars hotel room into a real dump. It’s like a ritual, apparently; now that he’s wrecked up a hotel room he can call himself a real rock star. 

“I’m a gloomy person,” he says. “Do you realize I almost brought someone back here with me?”

“That was a possibility I was considering, yes.”

“What would you do then?”

Xabi shrugs. “I’d just have to come back some other time, wouldn’t I?” The Spaniard makes a pause, looks down and away, seemingly uncomfortable. Nervous, even. Stevie frowns. He reckons if he was in a completely sober state he’d be likely freaking out right now; good thing he decided to get high, then. It is certainly taking the edge off. 

“Look,” Xabi starts again after a moment. “I know our last meeting wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. I realize that I’m probably amongst the last people you want to see right now -”

“Right now I’m kind of just really curious as to what can be so important that you’d come back to England to hunt me down in London, in the middle of the night.”

Xabi gives him a short grin. “That does seem very unusual, doesn’t it?”

“That’s one word for it. I could think of a few more appropriate ones.”

Xabi studies him for a while. “I like your new style,” he says, with that same old-pals-reunion sort of intonation, and Stevie honestly doesn’t know how to read the signals here anymore. “You look good with a beard.”

“I look like a homeless person.”

He laughs, richly, making Stevie flinch slightly at how his heart races on. “A very charming homeless person.”

“I call it my-boyfriend-dumped-me-for-somebody-I-hate style.”

"Ah,” he says, a little awkward. “I heard about that. I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?”

“Of course.”

“And you came all the way here to pay your sentiments?”

“No.” Xabi exhales heavily. “That is not why I’m here, just thought it was polite to comment.”

Stevie folds his arms in front of his chest stubbornly. “You can quit the small talk and tell me what this _business proposition_ you have is.”

“Fair enough.” Xabi stuffs his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps closer to the bed. He stops, sighs, looks away, and when his eyes meet Stevie’s again, there’s something awfully desperate about him. Something Stevie doesn’t think he’s ever seen in Xabi before. Not even when he was still part of The Red Kop. He seems… humbled. “I had a meeting two weeks ago with this man called Frank Lampard. Have you heard of him?”

“No,” Stevie shrugs. “Should I have?”

“Maybe. We have strong businesses with him in Madrid. He owns a company based in England that produces large events, such as tours. Dalglish and Benítez have been negotiating the account of your American tour with his company for a few months now. I thought maybe Jamie had shared the details with you.”

Stevie snorts. It’s very possible that he did, but the rest of them were just not paying enough attention, choosing to focus instead in creating stupid drama by shagging people they shouldn’t. “He might have,” Stevie comments, simply.

“Anyway. I had a meeting with Frank because he asked for our help. Well, actually - my help.”

The Scouser frowns. “Help with what?”

“He seems to think that it would be a lot easier to negotiate all the minutia of your tour and understand what exactly the needs of the band are if they had someone of their trust, who could work very close to them, but also very close to you.”

_Oh fuck…_

Stevie rolls his eyes and shakes his head disbelievingly. “He didn’t ask -”

“Me to work with you? Yes. That’s exactly what he did. He talked to my boss while I was away in Liverpool and they were waiting for me with a contract when I returned.”

“Did you tell them they’re out of their fucking minds?”

Xabi stops for a second. “I tried.”

“What do you mean, you _tried_?”

“I told them that there were certain… awkward aspects… that would make working together very difficult. As a matter of fact, I told them I didn’t want the job, although I agreed that it would be an incredible opportunity for me, professionally speaking. But they insisted. Told me to sleep on it, think about it… And that’s exactly what I have been doing for the past two weeks.”

“Don’t tell me you came all the way here to ask whether I think that’s a good idea. ‘Cause you can assume the answer to that by yourself.”

Xabi draws another nervous breath in. It’s easy to tell he’s aiming for schooled nonchalance, like what they’re talking about is really all just business, like this conversation isn’t tarnished by their history, but, much like Stevie, Xabi has been through so much that it is starting to show. The cracks on his demeanor are as wide as a crack on the wall, as a crack on the fucking universe. He’s only just a man, after all.

“How would you feel about me going back to Liverpool, Steven?” Xabi asks in a slow and clipped tone, measuring out each word almost like he’s afraid of that question, or of the answer he might hear.

Stevie doesn’t know which is weirder: the crystal clear uncertainty in Xabi’s eyes or the question itself. Maybe a few days ago he would’ve stood up and slapped the other man, but right now he just can’t muster that kind of anger anymore. Instead, all he says is, “… what?” because it is also very late and he was very high until just a minute ago, so it’s possible he just didn’t understand.

“It could be a very big and definitive step in my career,” Xabi explains. “But I don’t want to take it. Not unless… Well… Unless… Unless you want me to.”

There’s a pause, a lengthy one, during which Stevie stares at Xabi with his eyebrows very knitted together and Xabi waits in a sort of suspended tension that is totally unfamiliar to him. The whole thing is rather mind-blowing and the truth is Stevie is having a hard time even figuring out what exactly is being propositioned here. All he knows is that it is obviously something that means a lot to Xabi, so much that it has put him in a state of anxiety that has taken him from Madrid to London in the middle of the fucking night, and that it is laying him bare before Stevie’s eyes in a whole new manner.

Xabi is… nervous. No, he’s more than nervous, he’s terrified. He always looks so appropriate to all occasions, but somehow this still unidentified one has scratched his surface, and now all manner of hidden things seem to have come spilling out.

“I have no fucking clue what you’re trying to say, Xabi,” he admits, because this is so not the kind of conversation he should be having so late in the night, after drugs and alcohol and a near hard-on.

Xabi nods hurriedly, rubs his hands together. “Ok. I’ll explain it.” He opens and closes his mouth twice before producing actual words. “I… made a mistake. With you. I was wrong. Not in leaving you, because… Well, I already told you that part. It was something that I had to do at the time. I’m stubborn and I made a decision that I intended to stick to for better or for worse.” Xabi makes a pause. “But the things is… I went back to Spain after the gala, to my flat, my office, my life - and nothing felt the same anymore. It’s like there’s a hole in my life now that wasn’t there before. I’ve always been a loner, but… It isn’t just about being lonely, it’s about… It’s about you, Steven. I made a mistake when I refused to tell you that I wanted you back. When I told you that I didn’t want to disrupt things with Fernando, that was a lie. I hate Fernando. I hate his stupid blond hair and his stupid Converse sneakers and his stupid freckles, because… Because he isn’t _me_. And I resented you for having someone in your life who meant something while I never… I never found anyone else. Not even close.”

Somewhere along Xabi’s speech, Stevie’s heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds and he might have died a little bit because his soul has abandoned his body and he’s watching the scene from above, like someone watching a movie in a theater. They have just reached the last bits of a romantic drama when, after everything goes wrong, someone goes back and apologizes.

It’s exactly the sort of thing he had hoped Xabi would do after he left the room at the Hilton, when they agreed to be over. While he waited for the elevator, he had that faint, distant hope that Xabi would stop him from going. It would’ve been so easy for Xabi to just open the fucking door and tell him to stay - and he would've. Without a doubt he would've. Stevie just wanted a _sign_ , anything to make him believe that Xabi felt the same way he did, that he was willing to take the same risks. But Xabi didn’t. No. That would’ve been too lame for Xabi Alonso. He has to show up out of nowhere, two weeks later, with his tail between his legs, after Stevie’s gone through seven kinds of shit.

A thousand things begin to immediately rush across Stevie’s head, memories and feelings and thoughts, the misery of the past two weeks only too vivid. He feels himself being invaded by an impossible wave of irritation and when he stands up to his feet, his fist clenched tight, he knows his face is turning red to match the burning sensation.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” he hisses angrily. Xabi flinches in front of him, his expression twisting into a mix of surprise and something like hurt. “I was in your _hands_ , Xabi! I went to your room at that stupid gala, I was just waiting for you to say the word! _I’m staying in Liverpool and I want to get back together._ That’s all I wanted you to say, the whole week! I would’ve broken up with Fernando on the spot. But all you did was repeat how you fucking love Madrid and how everything is perfect and beautiful there and how you were never gonna leave it behind and instead of being with _you_ , I tried to save the little I still had with Fernando and got my arse kicked! I had my heart broken twice in one night because you didn’t want me! And even after everything I said, you’re still doing the exact same thing!”

Stevie makes a stop for breath as he’s nearly shouting now. “You still think you can have it all your way. Now that you want to take a job in Liverpool, you think ‘Wouldn’t it be great if I could fuck that fucking idiot Stevie again?’” He lifts his arms and let them fall heavily beside his body. “I have nothing else left, Xabi. Nothing. You took everything. What else do you want from me? What have I ever done to you for you to torture me like this?”

Xabi presses his lips into a thin, tight line, his eyes moving away from Stevie for a second before he speaks again - low and even. “I’m not trying to torture you, Steven,” he starts, apologetically. “I deserve to hear that, I admit. But I’m really not. I don’t want to have you because I’ll be in Liverpool. I want to be in Liverpool so that I can have you. It’s the other way around, you see?” He scrubs his face with his hands and, for the first time in a long time, looks exhausted and defeated and not at all in some kind of advantage here. 

“I love you, Steven,” he continues, and the phrase sounds so genuine, so bare of embellishments, that it knocks the air out of Stevie’s lungs. “I loved you before, I love you now and I’ll probably love you for the rest of my life. I didn’t expect you to forgive me or believe me then, and I still don’t. Maybe I wouldn’t have considered any of this if it hadn’t been for that job offer, but job or no job - it doesn’t change how I feel. It was one thing loving you from afar, but it’s a completely different one to go back and have a glimpse of what my life with you would be like, of everything that I have given up on. I can’t just ignore that. And that’s why I’m here. Because I made a mistake, and I want you back.” Xabi’s voice cracks up a little. Stevie’s heart is beating in his throat. “I love you. It’s as simple as that. Will you take me back?” 

It takes Stevie a while to realize that Xabi has stopped talking and that it’s his turn to say something. He’s staring in utter disbelief at the other man - at this Xabi doppelganger, who looks like him and sounds like him and dresses and walks and gesticulates like him, but that can absolutely not be him, because, fuck! He looks so much like the guy Stevie fell in love with all those years ago, so little like the bloody wanker he wanted to beat the crap out of for the past two and a half years.

It’s hard to find his voice, to find his words - they’re getting lost somewhere on the way between his brain and his mouth, melting away on the tip of his tongue before he can actually say them. With his heart throbbing against his ribcage, Stevie sits back down on the bed. 

This is so unexpected he doesn’t know what to do.

Stevie thinks of saying, how do you come in here after everything and expect me to just let you back in? He thinks of saying, how can I ever trust your words again? He thinks of saying, why did you wait so long? But he doesn’t. What he says is, “I fucking hate you,” and if Xabi could cry, Stevie imagines the face he would make would be something close to the one he's making right now.

But Xabi doesn’t cry, never. Neither does he apologize and means it, but it’s exactly what he seems to be doing. The world has shifted a little in its own axis, it seems. Stevie can’t seem to find his north anymore.

“I got my life back together after you and you came back and kicked it all apart,” Stevie continues.

“I’m sorry for -.”

“The fuck you are. You just said it, you hate Fernando.” Xabi stays quiet. “But you know what? You only do those things because I let you. I make it so fucking easy for you. I get all hot and bothered and it’s a feast for you, isn’t it? You just can’t help yourself.”

“Steven -”

“No.” He stands up again, stepping closer to Xabi. “You’re gonna listen. I’ve been through a lot of shit because of you. You think your last couple of weeks were terrible? Well, try filling in my fucking shoes. It was hellish. I lost all sense of everything. I didn’t know what to do anymore, where to go, what to think. Daniel and I almost killed each other, I have no clue where the fuck Fernando is and that means I don’t know if I still have a band, which is the only goddamn thing in this world that gives some meaning to _my_ life. I _am_ that band. It’s the only thing I know how to do. But I keep putting my sanity in your hands only for you to blow it time after time after time and you know why?” Xabi looks at him completely overtaken by sadness, his body already starting to tip towards the doorway. 

“Because I fucking love you, Xabier. I’m crazy about you.”

Xabi stops, his eyes suddenly wide and sparkling with hope. “You… you are?” he stutters.

Stevie rubs his face with his hands again, his heart in his mouth. “How do I even know you’re being honest about this, Xabi?”

“But I am! I swear to God, Stevie, I swear to anything you want me to swear. I’m being completely honest with you.”

“So… What? You move back to Liverpool and that’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Forever?”

Xabi pauses for a second. “Well, I don’t know if forever, but -”

“See? You’re already starting to falter!”

“No! No, Steven, that’s not it. I don’t know how this will pan out, just… I move back to Liverpool, I travel with you to the US, and then I don’t know.”

“So in three months you go back to Spain?”

“That’s going to be up to you.”

Stevie frowns. “Why me?”

“If you ask me to stay… I will.”

Stevie swallows down hard around the lump in his throat. “If I ask you to stay in Liverpool… You don’t go back to Madrid?” Xabi shakes his head in agreement. “And I have your word on this?”

“You have anything you want, Steven. Miki - that’s my assistant, Mikel - he talks a lot of shit, but he said something to me right after I got back and he was completely right. You’re the only thing that gets me out of my comfort zone. I don’t understand why, but… It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done fighting it. I’m yours, Steven. You do to me as you please. If you want me to go, I go. If you want me to stay… Just say the word.”

The whole thing is so surreal Stevie doesn’t know what do next. For a moment there he doubts he’s really awake. Maybe he just passed out somewhere and this is all a dream, because not in an entire lifetime did he ever think he’d see Xabi like this, so undone and sincere and… his. 

He forgets he has to speak and they fall into a long pause that Xabi breaks by sighing. “Well, you don’t have to answer right now,” he says. “Just… Think about it and then you can give me an answer. I’ll… Be somewhere in the hotel. I’ll go get myself a room. Just ask at the reception or give me a call or -”

“Yes,” Stevie cuts in.

Xabi stops. “What?”

“Yes, I… I’d like you to move back to Liverpool.”

The Spaniard smiles nervously at him. “You… you would?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?”

“Yes, but… Honestly, I didn’t think you would.”

“But you do realize that there are other people, right? I mean… You’d have to speak to the rest of the lads.”

“I’ve already talked to Carra.”

Stevie frowns. “You have?”

“How do you think I knew you were here?”

“But Carra hates your guts.”

Xabi laughs shortly. “Yeah, he does. But I guess he knows better than us.”

Stevie scratches the back of his neck, pensively. “So… that’s it? You’re going back then?”

“You sure you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

Xabi grins affectionately. “Then I am. So we can pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t want that.”

“… no?”

“No. We left off in a terrible place. Both times. I’d like us to start over.”

“That’s even better.”

“Ok.”

“All right.”

“Great.”

“Brilliant.”

“Can I please kiss you now?”

“Dear God, yes.”

Stevie wraps his arms around Xabi’s waist and ravages his mouth with kisses like his life depends on it. All his insecurities, confusions and doubts seem to die on the warm feeling of Xabi’s tongue against his. There’s an enormous sense of inevitability in it. Not for one second Stevie thinks everything is going to be as simple as snapping his fingers; it’s not just about Xabi showing up at his hotel and begging for forgiveness, and being a different person, and being in love with him. There are so many things they need to work out between the two of them. 

His chest is still stinging, the bruises on his face still hurt, his head isn’t completely clear and he doesn’t fully trust Xabi yet. But he could never resist him before, and it seems like that bloody Spaniard is still his biggest weakness.

They’re not perfect, but it seems there’s nothing, no other person, no distance, no bloody elephant gun in this world capable of keeping them apart after all. They’re not whole unless they’re like this, together, and that’s a fact.

It’s not ideal yet, but it’s a good start.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an Epilogue for this one foh suh. I don't know _when_ , but it will be here at some point.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	21. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fast! I thought it would take me _ages_ to finally write this epilogue, but hey! Inspiration came and here it is. The story never quite felt really wrapped up for me. My idea for the epilogue was not like this at all at first, and it would be really boring, honestly. So I decided to do something else entirely and I'm afraid some people might get mad me, but hey... Fair is fair.
> 
> So, again, THANK YOU all for reading and please leave me your feedback! :) I'd love to know your thoughts. This finale has much more potentially controversial themes than the other one, so I'm curious to know what you guys think.
> 
> Forgive me for all the mistakes and... Well, that's it. This really is the end! And a totally new one as well! Thank you! :)

Right now, Stevie would kind of like to be so famous that The Red Kop could travel by private jet everywhere, or not famous at all so that they wouldn't even have to start the stupid tour.

They hadn't really thought of logistics and dynamics when they accepted to tour the US of A on a bus. It was a good bus, Carra guaranteed, not like regular buses but a really large one, all adapted and shit and 'it costs hundreds of thousands of dollars'. But ridiculously expensive buses don't travel faster than ordinary buses, don't get to escape bumps on the road or suddenly become so large that Stevie can avoid everyone if he wants to. So still, it is essentially as shitty as any other bus, only perhaps a little more comfortable. _Barely_.

What they hadn't really had as well was time. The tour started a month and a half after the near implosion of the band. They all sat together for long hours in a room and had one of the most awkward conversations Stevie has ever taken part in, during which they sort of agreed not to kill one another and behave more or less within the realm of decency. There weren't really a lot of words, and Carra did the majority of the talking part. The others alternated between scowls, silent threats, a lot of discomfort and utter nonchalance. 

Convincing them to accept Xabi as their tour manager wasn't so simple, though (not that the rest of it was, but it was no sweat in comparison). In the end, however, Stevie's point proved to be sufficient - _"Fernando's sleeping with Daniel. I don't see why anybody should care that Xabi will be working with us again."_

And - well, when you think about, it doesn't really make much sense. One thing has absolutely nothing to do with the other. Stevie was just being cheap and playing the suffering card. And in any case, it worked, so who cares if it was low? Daniel found it very amusing and said _'Fair enough'_ , but Fernando was obviously pissed off. It was quite clear then that he and Stevie weren't exactly past the grudge yet after their break-up. Pepe's argument was more objective - Xabi didn't give a shit about leaving them once and he didn't give a shit about possibly ruining the band all over again by showing up years later with the sole purpose of bedding Stevie, so why should they trust him again? Why should they expect anything good from him? Why should they even want to give the guy a job? Now _that_ makes perfect sense. It's a valid point. But Pepe still couldn't come up with anything when Stevie implied that he would make everyone's lives hell if he had to endure Fernando-and-Daniel the couple and not have Xabi, so. He won.

Now, however, he kind of wishes he'd lost. That they'd all lost. He wishes Carra had talked them out of boarding a bus tour together before their wounds had been properly healed. It's suicidal, isn't it? The four of them plus Carra stacked on top of each other in a claustrophobic space, cruising across a country where people think they can go unpunished calling football _soccer_. They'd managed to cock things up when they were taking planes and short train rides for festivals and gigs in their homeland, how would it ever not be much worse on the other side of the Atlantic?

They spend three days in a proper hotel getting to be jetlagged and semi-famous rock stars with massages and big American cars and photo sessions and radio interviews before getting their tour bus. He and Xabi technically share a room, but Xabi is rarely ever there, always vanishing to God-knows-where after receiving phone calls from, apparently, incompetent people. It's obvious he's taking his new assignment very seriously, but whether that is out of sheer professionalism or because he's trying the impress the others Stevie doesn't know. What he knows is that he doesn't like what he hears on the morning before they start get on the road.

"What the fuck do you mean you're not coming with us?" he snaps, mouth half-full of pancakes. "I thought you said the whole point is that you would be with us at all times."

Xabi sighs, sips calmly from his coffee, like Stevie's making a scene and he's the grown up. Not even two months since they sort-of-but-not-quite got back together and already they're back to the old ways. Stevie forgot how much he hates Xabi's _calm_ ; it's so freaking condescending. 

"I didn't say I'm not going with you," he starts. "I just said I might have to leave at times, and probably not stick around for long. There are many things that need to be sorted before you get to the venues where you're playing, lots of details on your contracts that have been written in small fonts. My job is to make sure that all you'll have to do is show up, look good and play. And for that to happen I'll sometimes need to get to the places before you, which means -"

"You're taking a bloody jet while we get stuck with a fucking bus."

Xabi smiles. "Don't be so grumpy, Steven. The bus is not that bad."

"Yeah, well," he grunts, looking away from Xabi. He's honestly feeling betrayed right now. "Speak for yourself." _You won't have to put up with Mr. and Mrs. Agger_.

Xabi dedicates their last night together for God knows how long to making it up to Stevie in advance. He doesn't turn it down, but it doesn't really make anything better either. The extra creases are still visible on his brow when he wakes up the following morning and finds that his boyfriend had already left, nothing more than a note on the nightstand informing that he had to hurry to catch and early flight. _'Good luck and please try not to kill anyone. I'll see you in a few days. X.'_

All that means Stevie wound up being in a terrible mood and awfully pessimistic about the tour before it even starts. Definitely not a good sign.

He manages to snag a bunk above Pepe, who has a serious snoring probably, but it seems better than the alternative - staying close to Daniel and Fernando. The curtains in a semblance of privacy are a joke in Stevie's opinion, and there's barely any space to dodge anyone, if needed. They'll have to somehow manage not to blow up locked together in a moving prison for hours and hours. It's hell. But Stevie finds some measure of relief in cleaning everyone's shit and making sure the place remains neat to the point of mental illness, so they can at least be certain that it won't smell like a locker room in there after two nights. 

"You kids deserve this," Carra says, right before they leave. "Remember this. Remember this moment. You deserve to be here."

And, yes. In amidst all the anxiety and the annoyance Stevie almost forgot that this is a _big deal_. Their album is doing well enough in the UK and other European countries, but taking the US by storm is a different thing altogether. Conquering the American market is the ultimate step towards true stardom, and this is it. This is their time to shine. No one's going to wait for them to quit being fuckers and sulking around; the time is now and they'll either make it or break it. 

The four of them exchange embarrassed looks and small, knowing smiles, reminding each other again why they're doing it, putting themselves through the torture of months of confinement, reminding each other of how fucking much they've worked to get here. For a second it's almost like they're back in the old days, when there was still a feeling of togetherness amongst them, however feeble.

When the bus finally starts and they get on the road, in that exact moment, for just a fraction of a second, they feel like a band again. 

' _Here we go_ ', Stevie thinks.

x-x-x

Their first gig is _phenomenal_.

Fernando still doesn't like having Xabi around, still doesn't like Xabi _in general_ , but he has to admit the guy's nothing if not efficient. When he said _'All you lot will have to do is show up. Leave the rest to me'_ he wasn't fucking around. Everything was spotless and perfect and they had absolutely nothing to complain. That has to be a first. Fernando cannot imagine that Carra and his proneness to yelling and launching into Scouser rants that really only sound like barking to anyone from outside the UK could've done that on his own.

Of course, having Xabi handling the practical and logistical details of the tour means that Stevie is a grumpy sod more or less all the time. Mostly, he just looks tormented but keeps it all to himself. At times, however, he gets rather snappy. Especially at Daniel. Which is nothing new, to be honest, only Daniel can be as juvenile as Stevie and his way of retorting is to make out with Fernando when he knows Stevie is looking, just because. That has been the catalyst for several fights in less than a week. It gets old pretty fast.

After their first gig, muscles stiff and skin singing with adrenalin as they wait for their turn to use the bus' single shower, Pepe is talking loudly about signing a girl's breasts with such a gleam in his eyes you'd think he just went to Disneyland for the first time.

"She might've been underage," he says after a moment. "What is the legal age of consent here in America?"

"Are you considering cheating on your wife, Pepe?" Fernando asks. "Because you should know I won't let you."

Pepe snorts. "Of course not! I'd never cheat on Yolanda. I was just wondering if I broke any laws. Although I'm not sure if signing someone's breast is breaking the law, if the person has offered her own breasts willingly." They fall silent for a moment, waiting for Carra to get out of shower so the next one can move, eyeliner dripping down their cheeks, then Pepe starts again. "Why would she want _me_ to sign her tits?"

"What do you mean?" Stevie asks.

"Shouldn't she want _you_ to do it? Or _you_?" he asks, nodding towards Fernando and Daniel.

"Why anyone want to have a brooding bastard signing their breasts?" Daniel replies, smirking, obviously staring at Stevie.

Fernando rolls his eyes and mutters _Oh God _under his breath.__

__"Weirdly enough, Agger, some of our fans do find me attractive," Stevie replies, matter-of-factly. And just when Fernando thinks he's going to leave it at that and avoid an argument at almost three in the morning, Stevie adds, "Not just our fans either. Some of your boyfriends too."_ _

__Daniel's face scrunches up in a grimace and he speaks low but menacingly when he says, "I will punch you in the face."_ _

__"What? Again?" Stevie shrugs._ _

__Maybe it's because he's still high from the gig or because he's so tired he's kind of doped, or maybe it's because Pepe starts giggling like a fifteen-year-old, but Fernando joins him and soon enough they're all laughing insanely together. Carra comes out of the shower and doesn't understand anything, looks from one to the next like he can't quite figure out what he's missed, when exactly they started having fun together again._ _

__It's absolutely ridiculous, but it feels amazing. Fernando can't even remember the last time they were able to appreciate something together, even if _something_ in this case is their own nonsense. He wonders if things will ever feel normal again for them, or if they'll reach the breaking point before they manage to heal._ _

__

__x-x-x_ _

__They're having a real bad sound check, probably for the first time since the tour started. Stevie is usually very patient with that, because he's also usually very anal about it. Practices are almost as important as match days, sometimes more, is what he learned during his brief stint at the Liverpool Academy, before his ligaments burst and crushed his dream of becoming a professional footballer. It wasn't all that useless in the end; if anything, it taught Stevie discipline. And, well, there was Carra too._ _

__Today, however, Stevie's patience is running very thin. There are way too many technical difficulties, Xabi's arguing with the technicians instead of giving him attention and Daniel has about twenty lovebites and looks irritatingly pleased with himself. Before he winds up snapping at everyone, Stevie walks out._ _

__He doesn't say that he needs a fag because Carra would go ballistic. There was a whole lecture on the malefactions of smoking and how Stevie wouldn't want to end up like Axl Rose after he got back from London smelling like a chimney. Stevie acted cool and pretended to be taking him very seriously, but the truth is that a, cigarettes make him feel better in times of extreme stress, it's a necessity, and b, he would very much like to end up like Axl Rose, thank you very much. Who wouldn't? So what if Axl Rose is fat and doesn't show up to his own concerts and can't hold a single note anymore? He's already done his part. His contribution to music history has already been made. If he's half as famous as Axl Rose when he turns 50, he'll be more than satisfied._ _

__Besides, like _cigarettes_ were the worst of Axl Rose's problems. He wishes._ _

__Anyway, he could really use a fag right now, but he didn't bring any with him. Everyone knows he's smoking again, but they act like they don't as long as they don't see it, and the worst Stevie's received so far were judgmental glares, no sermons yet. It's not as though he _wants_ to smoke; he knows it's bad for his voice, admitting he gives a shit about the health part in general, but once he starts doing it, it's hard to quit. Smoking it a get-away for him. Especially since _Daniel_ gets to smoke as much as he wants with no one to fucking get on his nerves about it. (' _Daniel is a former addict, Stevie. He smokes so he won't do anything worse_ ', is what Carra always says. Well, fuck Daniel and his stupid addiction. Why does anyone else need to suffer just because he's a fucking asshole?) _ _

__He thinks it would be only fair for cigarettes to be free for all during the tour. It's bad enough that they have to deal with the pressure of performing every other night in front of really large and new crowds made of people who are only now getting acquainted to them, which means they have to deliver their absolute best if they mean to get fat contracts and other lucrative tours out of this. Doing that while splitting the space of a bus with four other people for three months? That's just insane._ _

__Since he can't smoke, all he does is sit down with his back against a wall and take a deep breath. It's a really hot day._ _

__Not ten minutes later, Fernando joins him._ _

__"Spot is taken," Stevie announces, not really looking up at his - band-mate is probably the best definition. They used to be good friends before they became more than that, but things have been strained and oddly quiet between since the break-up, so it's probably a long stretch to call Fernando his _friend_. Although - if Stevie's completely honest, he sometimes still feels close to the Spaniard. There's a lingering companionship there somewhere. Stevie still looks at Fernando with tenderness at times (not when he leaves lovebites all over Daniel, though) and he thinks Fernando does the same thing, which leads him to believe that in spite of all the awful things they've said to each other and the subsequent awkwardness and how Fernando didn't want Xabi around again (that was really selfish of him, in Stevie's very biased opinion), they still care. Stevie cares, anyway. Even if he doesn't know what to say anymore._ _

__"This is a street," Fernando points out. "You can't claim the entire street."_ _

__"Well, this spot, on the pavement, has been taken. I suggest you go look for another place to make out with your beau." The second the words slip out of his mouth, Stevie wants to snatch them back out of thin air. It's a mean thing to say and there's really no reason whatsoever to snap at Fernando like that except that he feels like being vicious just because._ _

__Daniel's flaunting his lovebites like a trophy and it's not that Stevie is jealous, not exactly, but he is. A little bit. In a strange I-don't-know-how-to-handle-this way._ _

__"You're a real asshole, Stevie," Fernando replies, sounding more tired than upset. He doesn't move, though. Doesn't leave. Just stands there, breathing, and after a while Stevie realizes that it is actually rather soothing having another soul next to him. It's entirely possible that his bitchiness of late derives from that fact that he is _lonely_ , more so than from the fact that he hates Daniel, what with Xabi actually having to _work_ , and there's a part of him that deeply resents Fernando because he _isn't_. Daniel's stupid lovebites are proof enough._ _

__Only one of them is moping and that feels unfair, for whatever reason._ _

__"What do you expect, really?" Stevie says, continuing on his train thought, only out loud now. "We're a band where everyone's slept with everyone. How are we ever going to learn how to be civil around each other?"_ _

__"Nobody's slept with Pepe," Fernando replies. "Not that I know of."_ _

__"Pepe doesn't count. He's straight. It's the rest of us who fuck it all up."_ _

__The Spaniard is quiet for a second before adding, "You haven't slept with Daniel."_ _

__Stevie faces away from where Fernando's standing, not quite able to fight back the smirk that creeps up on his lips. Was it any other day he would probably just say 'Yeah, that's right' because he swore he'd take the truth of it to the grave. Daniel doesn't seem to remember anything, so Stevie just acted like he didn't either, like they hadn't done anything. Only he does remember, and they did, and under normal circumstances it disgusts Stevie just to think about it. Because it's _Daniel_ and he fucking hates Daniel's guts. Not that he felt that way back then, so it wasn't completely despicable, but their relationship deteriorated pretty fast, so it was good that they had just quietly agreed to never mention that one crazy night at Jerzy's._ _

__Now, however, for whatever reason, Stevie's finding it _hilarious_._ _

__"What are you laughing about?" Fernando asks._ _

__"Oh," he says, reigning himself in. "Well, that's debatable."_ _

__"What's debatable?" Stevie doesn't say anything, lets Fernando work it out by himself, and then, "What?! You've slept with Daniel?!"_ _

__Stevie shrugs. "I might have."_ _

__"Shit," Fernando says, sitting down beside Stevie, not quite close enough to touch, but it's comfortable. It feels good. Fernando's laughing. Stevie missed his laughter. "Tell me everything."_ _

__x-x-x_ _

__

__They're all on the bus, sharing the small common area, pretending it isn't awkward as fuck. Pepe tried to strike up conversation, but Fernando was the only one who listened to him and, truthfully, they were all too tired to indulge their drummer in his failed attempt at sociability._ _

__There's a point when you just become convinced that you have been on the road _for ever_ and that it is never going to end. They're not even half-way through it and it already feels like eternity. Xabi is not around - _again_ \- and Stevie doesn't even care that he's being completely obviously broody all the time. _ _

__Then Jamie walks in, looking pale and solemn and very un-Jamie like, as though he's seen a ghost or is feeling ill or something._ _

__"Are you ok, man?" Pepe asks._ _

__Jamie tries to speak, fails, then tries again. He's looking down, to his own shoes, and somehow, even before he starts, Stevie knows what he's going to say. He just goes cold._ _

__"It's Finns."_ _

__

__x-x-x_ _

__

__There's a long debate over whether they should cancel the tour and go back to the UK. Daniel makes his thoughts pretty clear by shouting that they're all fucking assholes if they don't right before he disappears, nobody knows where to._ _

__Stevie agrees with him, sort of. He doesn't know _why_ , but he wants to be there. He wants to apologize, even if it's not going to make a difference anymore. It's not going to change the fact he was a cunt all those years ago and practically kicked Finns out of the band and sent him on his way, all alone. _ _

__Apologizing is not going to bring him back, but Stevie still wants to do it. Still wants to be there. Someone should. He shouldn't be alone, even if it won't mean shit._ _

__Pepe looks quietly stunned, like he doesn't really know what to do. Fernando - Stevie didn't think he'd be _that_ shaken up, but he is. It takes Stevie a moment to remember that he was the last one of them to see Finns alive, and that he felt terrible for not stopping him when he left the pub. Fernando goes to his bunk bed, shuts the drapes, and Stevie knows he's crying, he can _hear_ it, cutting through the icy silence on the bus like a knife._ _

__Stevie feels awful for Fernando. He wants to go there and give him a hug and tell him he doesn't have to blame himself, that it wasn't his fault then and it's still not his fault now. There was nothing he could've done, and it wasn't even his job to do anything. He didn't know Finns._ _

__He doesn't do it, though. Doesn't have the heart for it. He's not shocked, exactly, because it's not surprising per se, but he feels paralyzed, is surprised he can still somehow breathe. This was always going to be how Finns ends, alone and overdosed - and probably smiling too, that motherfucker. Not even death could shake that smile off of his face._ _

__They said it was accidental. Stevie thinks Finns was way too smart for an accidental overdose. He knew what he was doing. Finns wanted to die._ _

__Xabi shows up a while later and sits down beside Stevie, an arm around his shoulders. The ones who are in good enough state for it stay and discuss the situation - that is Jamie and Pepe, Stevie just listens, doesn't really say anything._ _

__In the end, they decide they can't cancel the tour. Too many sold out gigs, too many lawsuits that would be the end of the band. "He wouldn't want us to," Jamie says, albeit not very convincingly, and Stevie imagines Daniel would tell him to shut the fuck up if he was here. Stevie almost does. They chose the band over Finns once and it doesn't seem fair to do it again now. He's dead, for God's sake. The only reason why Stevie keeps his own trap shut is because he was one of the voices that decided to move on without Finns back then. So, technically, he's at fault here. He's felt at fault ever since._ _

__They do cancel the day's gig, though, and the next one as well. There's a breach in the contract that allows them to do so, Xabi says. He spent a lot of time reading the small lines and consulting with the offices back in London and Liverpool to know what they could or could not do._ _

__Stevie's kinda pissed because Xabi's being Xabi right now when he should be at least _a little bit_ panicky. But once everyone leaves to grieve on their own and it's just the two of them, he senses Xabi letting out a shaky breath next to him, finally taking off his Super Businessman suit to become someone closer to the person who showed up in the middle of the night in London to convince Stevie to take him back. A little desperate, a little more human._ _

__Stevie needs that Xabi so fucking much._ _

__"I'm sorry," Xabi says, holding Stevie's hand so tight it's hard to know whether he's doing it for Stevie or himself. "I wish we could just go back to England, but..." he trails off._ _

__"I know," Stevie mutters. He's looking down, not really focusing. He can't even cry, although he wants to. "I don't like it, but I understand. Not right now, but in a while. It'll make sense."_ _

__They lapse into silence, a quiet steadiness that surrounds them like a heavy cloak. Suddenly, Stevie finds himself missing the bickering and the fighting and the annoying bus noises that were getting on his nerves. Anything but this deadly, haunting absence of sound._ _

__"Everyone seems to think that I joined the band because of you," Xabi starts, as though sensing the growing uneasiness on his boyfriend. "I was with Harry back then, but there was always... Well, something. That wasn't it, though. I did fancy you, but that's not why I joined the band."_ _

__Stevie finally turns his face to look at Xabi, who has a little wan smile dancing on the corner of his lips and a far-away gleam in his eyes, engrossed in some bittersweet memory._ _

__"It was Finns," he finally adds. "He knew Harry, and Harry told him I could play the guitar, so he introduced us when Finns started looking for people. I wasn't interested at first, but he was very persistent. We sort of became friends and at some point he convinced me. Finns could sell anything to anyone. He sold me The Red Kop."_ _

__Stevie nods in agreement, smiling fondly. "Finns started the band. He knew me, so of course he knew Carra. And he knew Jerzy as well, who let us use his flat for rehearsals. We needed a drummer, so he went around campus like a lunatic asking if anyone could play the drum until Pepe came forward. The first time I ever heard someone saying 'We should have a band', it was Finns." There's a pause, and then Stevie chuckles. "Ironically enough, the only person he didn't get into the band personally was Daniel."_ _

__Xabi moves closer, nestling his head on Stevie's shoulder, placing a warm kiss on the curve of his neck. Stevie wraps an arm around his boyfriend, chin on top of Xabi's head, excusing him for all the times he felt abandoned and horny and stressed out during the tour because Xabi wasn't there, had more important things to do. Stevie's just glad that he has someone right now, and that that someone is Xabi._ _

__" _Why_ would he do something like this?" Xabi demands after a while, just a loud thought that escapes his lips._ _

__It hurts to think about Finns, but it's almost impossible to do anything else. Stevie remembers him, remembers his voice, his calm enthusiasm, the resignation with which he faced his addiction. _'It's just the way I am, Stevie,'_ he used to say. _'Too old to change now'_. _ _

__"Why wouldn't he?" Stevie asks at last._ _

__

__x-x-x_ _

__Daniel shows up later, completely smashed. He is a mess, sprawled on the small sofa in the bus, alone. Everyone else has gone out. They're staying at a hotel tonight - _thank goodness_ ; Stevie doesn't think he can handle Fernando's muffled sobs all night - and they're all sorting things out elsewhere._ _

__So it's just the two of them, and Stevie wants to leave and not face Daniel, but he can't._ _

__He sits down across from him, Daniel's eyes too sharp and too clear, staring at the bus ceiling. Stevie doesn't think he ever noticed his eyes are green. Or he didn't remember, anyway._ _

__"He was mine first," Stevie says, prompting Daniel to glower at him. There's a bit of everything there, on the down curve of his lips and the hardness of his gaze and the way his nostrils are flaring like he's about to spit fire. Daniel's angry and sad and heartbroken and confused and maybe a dozen other things, all at the same time. _'It must be really hard to be in his skin right now'_ , Stevie thinks, and that's the closest to compassionate he's felt towards Daniel since the night he nearly killed himself._ _

__"He was my friend first," Stevie continues. "We used to play football together every Sunday, since we were kids. It was myself, Carra and Finns, all the time, before."_ _

__"I don't want to know," Daniel mumbles, not without some hesitation._ _

__"We even hooked up, once. We were both really drunk, but I think we had been wondering for a while what it would be like. I was gay, he was gay, we were friends... Just stupid not to make out at least once, just to see what it's like."_ _

__"Shut. up." Daniel hisses, placing a folded arm on top of his head to shield his eyes from Stevie._ _

__"I know," Stevie replies. _I know you're angry. I know you're upset. I know what it feels like._ "I'm just saying. He was mine first. I think about him. A lot. I've thought a lot about him over the years. I didn't... I didn't want him to..." _ _

__It's stupid, but he can't say it. Still can't get himself to say it out loud. _Finns is dead. I didn't want him to die, but he did and now he's gone.__ _

__Somewhere deep down, Stevie always thought he'd have a chance to look Finns in the eye once more and tell him how sorry he feels for being so angry and intolerant and impatient when he should've taken care of his friend. Even if his friend didn't want to be taken care of. Not by him, not even by the person he loved the most in the world. Finns understood better than all of them why he had to go, why there wasn't a chance for The Red Kop to continue if he stayed around. That does not appease the pain in Stevie's chest right now, though._ _

__He thought he still had time. But time's over now. Finns is no longer._ _

__"I don't think it was an accident," he speaks again after a moment._ _

__"Because you know Finns so well, don't you?" Daniel asks, all vicious._ _

__"Does anyone? Do _you_?" He leaves silence for Daniel to fill, even rebuff him and prove him wrong if he wants to. But the Dane says nothing, and, once more, Stevie reckons he's right. No one ever really knew Finns. "He was smarter than all of us. That was his curse. He was too smart for his own good. He _knew_ what was happening to him all along. There was never a moment of oblivion, when he could simply lay back and feel nothing. He felt it all. And he knew it was strong, too strong to fight, so he simply... Accepted. And I was so fucking mad at him... I wanted him to fight, but he just wanted to... Let go. And you wanted to go with him, so I was pissed at you too. Even when Finns was stoned like fuck, he could look into your eyes and make _sense_. That was so annoying. He _knew_ he was fucking it all up and he still did it anyway. That's why I don't think it was an accident. I think he knew he was going to... Die." Stevie chokes on the word for a second, has to take a breath with an element of a sob before continuing. "He was just letting go."_ _

__Daniel's staring at him again, eyes oddly bright with tears. So much hurt. He looks... Vulnerable. Weak. Bare of all the usual bullshit he wears before Stevie. And Stevie reckons he probably looks exactly the same way to the other man right now. Almost like a different person altogether. Or perhaps like someone they hadn't seen in years, since the very start of the band, back when Finns was still alive and not totally screwed up yet, when they weren't sympathetic towards one another but had no obvious reason to resent or despise the company._ _

__Stevie loves Xabi, he really does, and he cares a lot about Fernando, and he can't live without Jamie either, but none of them understand him right now quite as much as Daniel does. They share an impossible, and highly unlikely, comprehension of pain and regret and yearning right this moment. And that is... A little beyond him._ _

__"He's definitely dead, isn't he?" Daniel asks after a spell, his voice lacking substance, drained away._ _

__"He is," Stevie answers, words quivering in his mouth._ _

__"Stephen was mad as a hatter, wasn't he?"_ _

__Stevie's lips quirk up, just a tiny bit. "Yeah, he was," he says._ _

__

__x-x-x_ _

__

__It's a tiny side-of-the-road type of motel. Not completely awful, but far from what they've gotten accustomed to in the past few years. It's the best Carra could manage in such short notice, though, and it will do. They're all so mentally drained they'll either sleep anywhere or not sleep at all, so who cares._ _

__Carra makes sure they each get their own room because if there was ever a time when they needed to be alone, it's tonight. Stevie stays with Xabi, though. And as he walks to their room, he watches Daniel stopping a few doors away, where Stevie knows Fernando's staying. He doesn't smile at the other man because he doesn't have it in him to do it, and because it's Daniel, but for the first time ever he is glad that Fernando's with him, that he won't be alone tonight. He's probably feeling like shit and it will mean a lot to him that Daniel's not mad at him all over again._ _

__Xabi's face is caught under the moonlight but the room is otherwise completely in the dark. Stevie stands back for a minute, leaning against the closed door, waiting for something to shatter. All that anger he felt just a moment before has dissipated and clenched itself into a tight knot, coiled around his insides like a snake, and for a second there this all feels unreal. Finns' death - Finns' _suicide_ -, the semi-conversation with Daniel on the bus, the patches of white skin on Xabi's face catching the light, his eyes dark with grief._ _

__Stevie crosses over to him, cups Xabi's face in his hands and kisses him. His boyfriend freezes for a spell, perhaps not expecting him to do it, but he relaxes into it not too long after, curling one hand on the back of Stevie's neck and pulling him down. Stevie straddles him a little awkwardly, but doesn't break apart enough to adjust the position, one hand tangled in Xabi's hair, biting on Xabi's lip, rough and aching and refusing to move an inch away._ _

__Soon enough Xabi's fumbling with the fly of Stevie's jeans, pulling it open and pushing inside to wrap his fingers around his cock. Calloused fingers from guitar strings, just like Fernando's, just like Daniel's, because Xabi was part of that band too, he was one of them. He _knows_. Xabi _gets it_. Stevie heaves a breath into his mouth that sounds too much like a sob, his face contorting a little in a mix of grief and pleasure._ _

__The sex is quick and excruciating, bodies bumping messily together, shifting in rhythm as Stevie's fingers dig into Xabi's skin. He comes with a near scream; Xabi bites on his shoulder to muffle a moan. Stevie lies in his boyfriend's arms shaking like a leaf afterwards, not exactly crying, but almost, until something in his mind snaps and he jumps out of bed and scrabbles around for a piece of paper._ _

__

__x-x-x_ _

__

__"You're up early," Jamie says by means of greeting when they meet at the diner just outside the motel. It's just the two of them and three or four truck drivers nearly falling asleep as they wait for their pancakes and bacon. Jamie was probably not expecting to see anyone any time soon._ _

__"I couldn't really sleep," Stevie admits, pouring himself some coffee from Jamie's pot. Xabi asked him several times if he wasn't going back to bed, if he was all right, what was he doing scribbling down so furiously, before finally getting beaten by sleep. Stevie wanted to show him straight away once he was done, but he pitied his boyfriend, who had worked his ass off to fix their shit while they mourned and crashed and burned. Xabi deserved to get some rest._ _

__He pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and shows it to Jamie._ _

__"What is this?" he asks, frowning._ _

__"Just look."_ _

__He does, reading letter by letter, and, when he's finished, he looks up in mild astonishment. "Did you write this?"_ _

__"Yeah."_ _

__"When?"_ _

__"Last night."_ _

__Jamie looks down again. "This is... _Bloody hell_. It's incredible."_ _

__Stevie manages a little smile, although it doesn't quite meet his eyes._ _

__"Are you gonna show the others?"_ _

__"It's a song and we're a band."_ _

__"Stevie..." Carra starts. "They're gonna be - I mean, _Daniel_ is going to be -"_ _

__"Daniel needs to get his head out of his arse. I wrote this to a friend and fuck him if he's going to be bitching about it."_ _

__Carra shakes his head, smiling softly. "He's going to be emotional, is what I was going to say. He's going to be... Fuck, he might even cry."_ _

__"Oh," Stevie replies, not sure what else to say. He hardly thinks Daniel would cry about a song, especially one he wrote, and especially in front of him, but if he does... Hell, Stevie has no idea what he will do. He can't just _comfort_ Daniel. That's not what they're like._ _

__Still, getting emotional is probably better than getting snappy. If he starts bitching, then Stevie will be pissed, and if he gets pissed, then he _will_ know how to react, and that is by punching Daniel right in the middle of his face._ _

__Jamie looks at the song again. "You can't call it _They Keep Killing Stephen_ , though."_ _

__"Too morbid?"_ _

__"Something like that."_ _

__Stevie thinks about it for a moment, then takes the paper from Jamie and pats his pocket for a pen, crossing the original title and changing it to _Elephant Gun_ instead. "There," he says._ _

__Jamie smiles, a genuine and affectionate smile, and it warms Stevie up inside a little._ _

__They're going to be fine, he thinks. They're going to be just fine._ _

__x-x-x_ _

__

__It feels odd when the last night rolls around. Stevie doesn't even notice that the tour is over until he sees the date of their last show printed on a poster. It's sold out, like most of the previous gigs were. At some point during the tour they went pretty big in the US. Not _as_ big as he hopes to be one day, but moderately. There were stories about them on TV shows and magazines and a pretty great review on the Rolling Stones website. Buzzfeed even did a post on all the _16 reasons why The Red Kop should be your new favorite thing ever_. Number three: _Steven Gerrard is the man you want to spend the rest of your life with_. Heh. _ _

__Stevie gave up smoking about a month ago, started wearing patches. He still feels terribly claustrophobic at times, still runs away to have some air and wishes terribly that he could have a cigarette, but it's not as often as before, and, most of the time, gum does the trick and he is fine in no time. It's not very fancy, though, the stupid nicotine patches on his arm._ _

__"This is the exact opposite of what rock 'n roll stands for," he remarks before they go on stage, as he slaps on a new patch._ _

__"You can smash my bass guitar after the show if you want," Fernando offers, smirking. "Is that rock 'n roll enough?"_ _

__Stevie laughs. They're doing all right. It's not perfect or blissful and he and Daniel are definitely not buddies, but they're handling things better than they have in years. It would be funny if it wasn't so sad that what kicked them sort-of-back into shape was Finns' death._ _

__Pepe _did_ cry when Stevie showed him the new song. Fernando gave him a hug and started working on the melody almost immediately. Daniel didn't say anything, just looked at him. Like _really_ looked at him. There was no need for words there, no need for comfort either (thank God). They realized they would never be friends, but they were perhaps forgiving one another for all the hostility of the past and the future as well. The antagonism will never be over, it's sort of part of who they are now, they just get under each other's skins and that's it. But they _can_ be in the same band and they _can_ share a fucking bus for three months and they _can_ understand the hurt of losing a friend, even if the pain comes in completely shades for each of them. That's something already._ _

__The last night is the best night. They're absolutely on fire, going harder than they ever did before. The fans as hysterical, shouting all the lyrics back at them in one voice, and it's absolutely beautiful. It's not the biggest crowd but the energy is palpable, electrifying, coursing through his veins. People are dancing and crying and singing and Pepe throws his drumsticks to them after the encore, they stay on stage for a long time, drinking in the atmosphere and feeling absolutely _fantastic_. _ _

__Stevie realizes - this is what he is, it's what he loves. He's nothing away from a stage, from a microphone and from music. It's insane that he considered quitting the band after breaking up with Fernando, and again after the tour started. Insane. He can never walk away from this, not now, not ever._ _

__There's an after party, obviously, with too much alcohol and too many people, but it is all brilliant. Xabi disappears from long periods, shaking hands and smiling at what Stevie assumes are important people from the tour company and the record label, all of them looking very pleased. All in all, they were a hit. Next time they return to the US it will be much bigger than this. Luckily, with jets instead of buses. They made it, but only barely._ _

__Stevie doesn't mind being on his own, though. Not tonight. He's feeling a little detached, like his body is having a blast but his mind is watching it all from above, fully taking in this moment of glory. Everyone's so crazy they don't even notice Daniel and Fernando together in the middle of the dance floor. Stevie almost finds it sweet, because they look just as happy as he does, and they deserve to be happy. They've killed it tonight. It doesn't bother him at all, the sight of his ex-boyfriend and his nemesis swapping kisses and loving touches. He could get used to this, Stevie thinks. Maybe he already is._ _

__Somewhere in the middle of the night, Xabi shows up again and drags Stevie back to the empty bus, where they have sweaty, drunken and celebratory sex. It's slow and thorough and they take their time fully appreciating each other, totally immerse in their moment of perfect completion._ _

__"You're number one in the UK," Xabi mumbles lowly on Stevie's ear as they lie together, crammed awkwardly into Stevie's bunk. "And also in Spain."_ _

__Stevie laughs. There's an irony there somewhere, although his head is too fucking hazy to understand._ _

__"Are you glad?" he asks. "That you decided to take the job? Or did you wish you hadn’t?"_ _

__Xabi places small kisses on his shoulder. "This was absolutely crazy. I thought I was going to shoot someone. You, or Jamie, or some of the guys working at the venues. Lampard, calling me every five fucking seconds from London. You were all driving me insane. I barely slept in the last three months."_ _

__"Is that a no?"_ _

__"Are you kidding me? I've never been more glad in my life." Xabi chuckles, moving even closer, if that's possible, half on top of Stevie, leaning over to kiss him on the lips. "I've loved every minute. Just wish we could've had more times like this."_ _

__"It was worth it, though, wasn't it?"_ _

__"Oh yes," he agrees, kissing Stevie again. "It was so worth it."_ _

__

__x-x-x_ _

__

__Xabi sits next to him on the plane back to England. It feels almost surreal to be going back. Stevie is pretty sure he just lived through the longest three months in the history of ever._ _

__"How do you feel about joining the mile high club?" Xabi casually asks while the cabin crew demonstrate the emergency procedures._ _

__Stevie's laughter is so loud it earns him a reproving glance from the flight attendant closest to him. Xabi barely twist a lip upwards._ _

__"Don't you think it's a little early in the morning for that?"_ _

__Not even eight yet, to be honest. They're all hammered from the night before. Pepe is already drooling a few seats away, Jamie is tinkering with his phone, even though he's been told to turn it off three times already. Daniel is sleeping on Fernando's shoulder, who's yawning behind sunglasses and staring out the window._ _

__They have all survived in one piece. Frankly, if anyone had asked Stevie whether he thought they'd make it three months before, he would've been severely inclined towards a pessimistic response. Even now he thinks it's a miracle._ _

__"Let's go home," Stevie says, softly, and he's looking at Xabi when he says it. It wounds almost like a question. With everything that happened, they didn't have time to talk, and Stevie only now realized that leaving America means going back to a life where he and Xabi don't even live in the same country._ _

__He hopes his words have sounded like enough of an invitation. Xabi said, back in London, when they agreed to give it another go that he would do whatever Stevie wanted him to do. Once the tour was over, he said, it was up to Stevie. Well, Stevie is telling him right now that he wants him to move back to Liverpool. Now the ball is in Xabi's court._ _

__"All right," Xabi says after a moment, smiling back at him, their arms pressed together so very comfortably, so very naturally. "Let's go home," he answers, not missing a beat._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Basically going through the same process as with Deadlines and Commitments with this one: rewriting bits of the story and trying not to hate myself too much. Let's see how long I can keep re-uploading it. This was the first serious fanfiction I wrote in this fandom (that wasn't based on anyone else's work) and I think it might still be my best one. I don't know.
> 
> Please comment if you like it! Feedback is much welcome.


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